No Man is an Island
by Joan Powers
Summary: A serious accident causes Grissom to re-evaluate his life and his relationship with Sara. GS drama, eventual GS romance. COMPLETE Ch 12 “I never dreamed that I would actually hear you say those words.”
1. Default Chapter

No Man Is An Island

By Joan Powers

Type: G/S drama, eventual G/S romance

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Grissom has a serious accident that causes him to re-evaluate his life and his relationship with Sara.

Timeline: Post Bloodlines

I need to thank Rosa, Leslie and Jonathan for their beta work and wonderfully helpful comments. And always thanks to Tracy, for her insight and suggestions.

This story is dedicated to Leslie who has patiently listened to my crazy ideas and encouraged me all along the way, (I couldn't have done this without you! You're excellent!), and my accident-prone sister Diane, whose trials inspired this story. Love ya Di!

My goal is to post a chapter a week of this continuing story. All feedback is greatly appreciated at .

**Chapter 1**

Gil Grissom stared at the pool of blood starting to collect on the floor. Initially, droplets had trickled into the grout between the ceramic tiles. Within seconds, as the blood flow became heavier; they began to adhere together to form a small puddle, a clear demonstration of the attractive forces between the molecules. He'd never observed this phenomenon from such an unusual angle; it was different than any other he'd experienced in his vast professional life.

Unfortunately, he was struggling to maintain some clinical detachment. For the blood covering the floor was his own, seeping out of his temple, as he lay on his side, naked, on the ceramic tiles of his bathroom.

He exhaled a shallow sigh of relief as the blood flow finally decreased to slow droplets. Perhaps there was a chance that he wouldn't bleed to death. However, the thought didn't comfort him much, for his situation wasn't good.

Goose bumps covered his naked body even though the steam generated by his shower hadn't dissipated completely. He hoped his body wasn't going into shock. When he attempted to reach for a towel, which lay less than two feet in front of him, draped over the seat of the toilet, his efforts resulted in excruciating pain flooding his head and racking his body. He passed out.

Later, when he regained consciousness, he realized that time had passed due to the amount of light coming through the window. Since strong sunlight was streaming through the slots of the Venetian blinds, it was possibly noon or one o'clock. He'd been unconscious for at least five or six hours.

He'd taken a shower around seven am, planning to be on the road before eight o'clock. He was driving to an entomology conference in Utah. After a two or three hour drive, he was supposed to be meeting with colleagues and attending seminars for two days, and of course, showing off insect collections with other professors.

He'd found a great specimen to present, a Ranchman's Tiger Moth (_Platyprepia virginalis_). While not rare in Nevada, this particular one had striking coloration. For that reason, he'd been anticipating the conference even more than usual. It was difficult to find an audience that would truly appreciate such a discovery.

That wasn't relevant anymore.

Always the scientist, he began to assess the crime scene. Who was he kidding, what crime scene? Any investigator worth his salt could discern within minutes that no weapon had caused his injuries, just clumsiness. He'd slipped stepping out of the bathtub after taking a shower.

In the process of falling, he'd banged his head, hard, against the marble vanity countertop. Possible concussion, he mentally noted. He'd also heard a sickening snap as he fell. Judging from the impossible angle that his right foot was dangling, he'd mangled his ankle, badly, as it slammed against the tub. He also must've bruised or damaged some ribs as he made contact with the bathroom floor since breathing was extremely painful. He was thankful that one of his ribs hadn't punctured his lungs.

He was moderately curious about why his hands hadn't flown out to brace him for impact with the floor. Wasn't that an instinctive reflex? The best hypothesis he could come up with was that as he fell, he was thrown off balance so suddenly that his body twisted sideways, and he didn't have time to compensate for the change in orientation. His arms and hands were sticking out straight in front of him, providing no support.

He urgently needed medical attention. But how could he get help?

His lab wouldn't be looking for him. Although they were unaware of his plans, they knew that he'd taken vacation time. The earliest they'd expect him back would be Wednesday or Thursday night. And then, when he didn't show up for work, how long would it take someone to drive all the way over to his town house and discover him, naked and sprawled out all over his bathroom floor, lying in his own blood? He shivered at the thought.

Could he reach his cell phone? Not if he couldn't move.

Maybe he could throw something out the bathroom window to get a neighbor or passerby's attention? Once again, that would involve moving.

Motivated by gut clenching fear and frustration, he gritted his teeth and frantically tried to move again, to do something to alleviate his circumstances, yet the overwhelming agony caused him to pass out again.

As Grissom regained consciousness, he made himself promise not to attempt to move again, no matter how tempting, because next time, he might not wake up. The dim lighting in the room revealed that another significant chunk of time had elapsed. Nighttime was coming and he would be completely in the dark.

His situation was critical.

He took a mental inventory of his wounds. The blow to his temple could become infected; he may've sustained a concussion or minor brain injury. He was having difficulty concentrating yet that most likely could be attributed to the intense pain of his injuries, which only seemed to be getting worse. While the medics wouldn't be able to do much about the ribs, just being in a more comfortable position would surely help. The pain radiating from his ankle was unbearable. Most likely he'd need surgery, and months of recovery.

He was alive, for now. His throat was painfully dry and his body throbbed with pain, but he was alive. And alone.

He grimly laughed. Talk about irony, normally he thrived on being alone. He'd always found so many things that fascinated him, that people could become an annoying distraction. He loved to hide away in the lab, doing science. His work and his varied interests truly drove and propelled him; they fascinated and thrilled him. Almost every day brought novel facts and ideas to explore and investigate, which filled him with excitement.

Not that he didn't like people; they were just more, complicated. As a child, other kids had mocked his interests and the fact that he cared so passionately about them. Even very few adults had truly appreciated his talents, so early on he learned to close off his emotions, not to share that part of himself with others so he wouldn't be vulnerable to their taunting or their indifference. He could get along just fine with others; he just didn't want to play their games. So while the other boys tackled each other on the playground, he quietly pursued his own interests and was happy as a lark.

He loved science. Entomology and forensics were a rush for him. He loved going to work everyday, maybe that's why he never used up his vacation time.

Most likely that's why he hadn't aggressively pursued a wife as well. He was a normal guy; he was attracted to women. But, he wasn't very good with people, especially the opposite sex. Upon meeting an attractive woman, the Ph.D. scientist rapidly became a babbling idiot. Thus, he wasn't highly confident about his abilities to court a woman. His passion for insects also drove them away in swarms.

Another motivating factor for him was that relationships required the commitment of a lot of time and energy. He couldn't serve two masters, so he devoted that energy to his career, instead. For the most part, he had no regrets.

Until recently.

Was he going to die alone? The thought bothered him more than he cared to admit.

Who would miss him? Besides his mother, would anyone truly mourn his passing? He'd always felt he'd made a difference in the world by helping people, the victims of horrible crimes, but would those victims or their families attend his funeral? He doubted it. Who was he working so hard to protect? Who would even arrange for his funeral?

Was he going to be like that mummified woman, Madeline Foster, whom he'd found trapped in her closet? He'd felt her terror as he stepped into the closet and closed the door to simulate the experience. For almost a month, no one had bothered to check on her, only robbers breaking into her home had alerted the police. Not even her nephew had noticed.

Would anyone actually look for him? How long would it take? Would they find an injured man or a decomposing corpse?

As he swallowed hard, he realized that he'd overlooked something when he assessed his situation. What was the rule? The rule of three. Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. He fought to keep his body from shaking. Although they were critical, his injuries weren't going to kill him. He was going to die of dehydration in his bathroom.

The darkness enveloped him, silently surrounding him like an insidious protective cloak, exacerbating every ache and pain in his body. His vision was limited; he could barely discern the shadowy outlines of the sink and toilet. Distant beams from a nearby streetlight dimly touched his window blinds. Considering that he carried a weapon and routinely interrogated criminals and other unstable individuals, he'd never felt so vulnerable in his adult life.

Night lingered forever, it seemed. As the minutes dragged by, he readily admitted to himself that he was scared that he was going to die. He was sorely tempted to stretch out his arms and allow his agonizing pain to overwhelm him and put himself out of his misery. Yet with his continued weakened condition, he was apprehensive that he would never revive.

Besides, that would be a coward's way out, he wanted to live. What did Nietzsche say?

To die proudly when it is no longer possible to live proudly.

He still had his pride, whatever that was worth.

Although he'd stepped away from the church years ago, he was sorely tempted to pray for help. What other options did he have? Yet, what was the point? He was a man of science, not faith. At this late hour, even if there was a God, he must be laughing at his circumstances, punishing him for his disbelief. Grissom didn't feel as if he'd done anything to deserve this type of punishment.

As he advanced in years, he began to envision his death. He'd assumed that rather than silently slipping away, dying of old age at a rustic retirement retreat, that his death would be violent and sudden. After all, two serial killers had threatened his life. If it hadn't been for Catherine's swift thinking and decisive actions, the strip strangler would've killed him. And Paul Millander's games, staging suicides of men who had birthdays identical to his, then toying with him during the course of the investigation, had disturbed him more than he cared to admit. Within the confines of a holding cell, Walter Darian had physically assaulted him while he was attempting to collect evidence; lunging for his neck with such speed he was shocked that his jugular was still intact. Even the police weren't a safe haven, for Officer Fromansky's behavior had been clearly threatening to him on more than one occasion.

Of course, there was also the possibility of freak accidents at crime scenes such as being grazed by a stray gunshot or blown up by a pipe bomb while innocently opening a closet door. There were myriad opportunities for an untimely death; his job was rife with hazards.

His only consolation was that under any of those circumstances, death would have been swift. Not tortuously slow and painful, not humiliating and degrading like this.

That reminded him of another quote.

_This is the way the world ends,_

_Not with a bang, but a whimper._

(T.S. Elliot)

That's what it felt like. Instead of leaving this world in a resounding and satisfying flash, he would be doomed to linger in a decidedly undignified lackluster fashion.

He strove to recall other quotes about the nature of death, to try to derive some comfort or meaning from them, for his knowledge was his treasure in which he'd invested his life.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. (Psalm 23:4)

No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't escape his Catholic upbringing. His mother would've been pleased.

_For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come? (Shakespeare)_

That's more like it. What dreams, indeed? Death would be a welcome relief from his excruciating wounds. But, despite his fear and discomfort, he wasn't ready; he refused to accept the possibility. Despite the circumstances and the odds, which he'd diligently calculated, he still had the irrational hope that he could survive this ordeal and return to his normal life.

Was he fooling himself?

_All we are is dust in the wind_. (Where did _that_ come from?)

Was his life ultimately worthless in the scheme of the world? He didn't think so. Yet, what legacy would he be leaving behind? Whose lives had he touched? Where had he made a difference?

The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time. (Mark Twain)

Had he fully lived his life?

He'd managed to drift off into a fitful sleep, for a short time. However, it was still pitch black, possibly hours from sunrise, when he awoke. Normally the stillness of the night was comforting to him, he enjoyed the silence and he preferred working at night behind the scenes of the regular crowd. Now those former daytime distractions would've been welcome with open arms.

His condition was deteriorating rapidly, as he expected. His ankle had swollen to enormous proportions while continuing its relentless throbbing. The effects of dehydration were already setting in; swallowing was extremely difficult due to the dryness of his mouth, and his head ached. The fluid accumulating in his ankle wouldn't be helping matters either. He estimated that his ability to think clearly would be severely hampered by the next day, as his bodily systems would become even more stressed. His blood would become thicker and more difficult to circulate which would tax his heart. His kidneys wouldn't function as well so the level of waste products would start to increase in his blood stream.

He was slightly encouraged as he recalled that the rule of three referred to ninety-degree desert temperatures. The ambient temperature of his surroundings could buy him more time. Symptoms of moderate dehydration had already set in. If (or, who was he kidding, when) he became more than ten percent dehydrated, he could become delirious or go into a coma. His prospects weren't promising.

What had he been thinking about before he dozed off? Oh, regrets.

He'd visited so many crime scenes during the course of his life. A large number of those scenes included pictures of loved ones – parents, sons, daughters, and grandchildren. Some picture frames cluttered their shelves or decorated their fireplace mantels while other families even plastered their walls with the faces of those they held dear. Inevitably these same victims had grieving family members come to the morgue to identify their bodies and arrange for their burials.

What was on his walls? His beloved butterflies and insects, which were already lifeless corpses. They wouldn't notice if he passed away and his rotting body stunk to high heaven. It wouldn't bother them in the least.

However, that had been the way he'd deliberately chosen to live his life. For years, he'd successfully strived to maintain acquaintances at a distance, so as not to allow anyone close access to his personal life.

Why did he feel this way? He wasn't entirely sure, he wasn't a man given to deep reflections on his emotions.

Current circumstances prodded him to examine the question in more detail. Upon more intense scrutiny, he realized that it wasn't that he couldn't love others or that he didn't want to care for others. He did have strong feelings regarding his coworkers.

The experiences of his childhood had taught him repeatedly that no one appreciated who he truly was. Adults and children alike had mocked him and rejected him when he allowed himself to get close to them. The fact that he was raised essentially by an absent father and a divorced deaf mother didn't help matters either. However, his mother's limitations had never been the problem. Even though she didn't always understand him, his mother had always unconditionally loved and supported him. Unfortunately, It just hadn't been enough to salvage the doubts inflicted by others.

As an adult, he'd realized that there were other people in the world who had more in common with him, who were passionate about learning and asking questions. College had been a wonderfully eye opening experience, it was the first setting where he'd felt free to thrive. Yet, it was too late to connect with these people on a more intimate level, the seeds of fear had already been planted deep within him and their roots had grown deep. At all costs, he had to protect himself from rejection, thus his brusque manner arose.

Despair was mounting up within him. He found himself fighting back a sob. At this point, he didn't actually care about crying, he was too miserable to be embarrassed. However the physical act was going to wreck havoc on his broken ribs. He struggled to control the intensity of his sobs as the pain shot through him. Hoarse cries escaped his throat as his chest heaved, although few tears accumulated in his eyes due to his dehydrated state.

He'd discovered that there was something even worse than his horror of being rejected. That he was going to die alone unloved and missed by no one other than his mother.

Bright beams of sun touched upon his closed eyelids, Grissom squinted as he opened them. Apparently daylight had arrived. Was it Tuesday or even Wednesday? He'd been drifting in and out of consciousness for so long, he'd no idea what day or time it was.

How much time did he have left?

Did it matter any more? There was no rational scenario he could concoct to get him out of this predicament. No one had any sustentative reason to stop by his town house and check on him. Most likely he'd be lying here until the neighbors reported the stench of his corpse.

He'd tentatively tried to move his arms with the idea of tinkering with the plumbing beneath the sink to obtain some water. Yet, his pain, which had dulled to a fuzzy haze, reared its ugly face in full force with the slightest effort of motion. Dragging himself over to the bathtub wouldn't be a viable option either.

What was the point? Was he postponing the inevitable?

Besides, what condition would he actually be in if he did survive? Would his heart and brain be able to function normally? How much surgery and rehab would he have to endure? He'd never been a patient man when it came to physical limitations, especially his own. Other than his impending deafness, he'd never had to accommodate them before.

Since he'd fallen early on a Monday morning, Grissom had estimated that he'd be dead by Thursday or possibly Friday. Time was slipping away from him.

Other than the agony of his wounds coursing through him, his senses felt diminished somehow. His hearing was fuzzy, his vision unclear. Of course he wasn't wearing his glasses either. His eyelids felt leaden, as if weights were upon them.

His initial impulse was to fight sleep, but why?

To die, to sleep---To sleep, perchance to dream (Shakespeare)

The nothingness of unconsciousness, the sleep of death, would be preferable to being tortured by his aches and doubts.

Another quote came to his mind.

_Death may be the greatest of all blessings (Socrates)_

And finally, a bible quote which spoke directly to his heart:

_For everything there is a season and a time for every matter under heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die (Ecclesiastes 3:1-2)_

He'd accepted it; he was going to die.


	2. An Unexpected Variable

Thanks for all the encouraging feedback!! It means a lot to me!   
**Chapter 2 An Unexpected Variable**

"Mr. Grissom? Mr. Grissom?" a male voice pressed, with some urgency. "Can you hear me?"

A large hand grasped his forearm, exerting light pressure.

"Mr. Grissom?" The voice became more insistent. "Can you open your eyes or squeeze my hand?" A hand was roughly inserted into his.

At that point, Grissom was so confused that he didn't care who it was or what he wanted. He was exhausted and he wanted this guy to quit shaking him and leave him the hell alone. Several voices murmured about him, some male, and some female. Some whispered and one was muffling sobs.

His befuddled brain tried to make some sense of the situation. Had he finally died? Was this his funeral? Was he in heaven or hell, or some other type of celestial waiting room? He didn't have the energy to even budge his eyelids, more or less squeeze some stranger's hand. Frankly, he didn't care; he wanted them to go away so he could fade into oblivion.

His wish was granted; the surrounding sounds became muted as he drifted back into unconsciousness.

A sharp pinprick in his arm brought him to attention, his eyelids fluttered open. A smiling older woman wearing a crisp white nurse's uniform greeted him.

"Welcome back honey."

She finished her adjustments to the IV tube in his arm then proceeded to check his vitals. She continued to chatter amiably as she worked; yet her words didn't fully register as Grissom took in his situation.

"…a lot of people worried about…."

He wasn't dead. He couldn't fully accept that, it just didn't make sense to him. It wasn't logical. His mind couldn't comprehend that he was really alive, and apparently at the hospital. He was clad in a hospital gown, his chest tightly bound with ace bandages. His ankle was hoisted up in a sling, still horribly swollen. As he tentatively raised his hand to his temple, he felt more gauze wrapped about his head.

"…poor girl must've been here all night…"

The excruciating pain had been reduced by the doctor's ministrations, but it was still a major force to be reckoned with. Instead of screaming agony, now he experienced constant dull throbbing. It was an improvement, in any case. His ability to think clearly was definitely diminished. His brain felt as if it was filled with a hazy fog.

He tried harder to focus on the nurse again, wanting to understand her words, sensing she was conveying important information, but he was feeling so tired.

"…she'll be back soon."

Taking a closer look at her patient, the nurse advised, "Rest now." Her words faded as he drifted back to sleep.

The next time Grissom opened his eyes, Warrick greeted him.

"Hey man, it's good to have you back," the younger man smiled with relief.

Grissom examined his surroundings as Warrick pulled his chair closer to the bed. Sunlight was flooding through the windows, though he'd no idea if this were even the same day.

Shadows hung under Warrick's eyes and his clothing was wrinkled. He muffled a yawn as he asked, "How are you feeling?"

Grissom had to think about that. "Better than I was."

"I'll bet."

Although it was difficult to concentrate, Grissom pushed himself to focus. "How did…how did I get here?"

Warrick sighed, looking down towards his hands, as if he didn't want to think about it himself.

"I just can't figure out how." Grissom was frustrated by the dullness of his mental faculties.

"Catherine found you on Thursday morning after her shift. Lindsay's been getting into trouble again, so she wanted to talk with you about making some changes in her work schedule. It was really bothering her, that's most likely why she decided she couldn't wait for you to get back to the lab. She got impatient and dropped by your house." He paused a moment, then almost mumbled, "Thank God your door wasn't locked."

Grissom heaved a cautious sigh of relief. Catherine, it figures. She'd always made herself at home, even when she wasn't invited. The fact that she'd discovered him in such a compromising position didn't even register to him. She was the variable that he hadn't accounted for. She'd saved his life.

Finally he'd discovered the answer to his nagging question. A tangible sense of release overcame him, like a gust of fresh air. He could close his eyes again.

The days Grissom spent in the hospital blurred together, it was difficult for him to distinguish one from another. At first, he was under close scrutiny since, as he'd suspected, his dehydrated state had led to a coma. He'd revived momentarily in the emergency room, and then lapsed back into unconsciousness for another day or so. His head wound had developed an infection as well.

After it was determined that his condition had stabilized, he underwent orthopedic surgery to insert pins into his ankle to re-align the bones so they would mend properly. Some of the bones had to be re-broken for correct alignment. Under normal circumstances, the surgery would've fascinated Grissom, even though it was the sickening crunch of his own bones being broken. Yet, he'd been so heavily sedated that the surgery barely registered in his mind.

The constant medicating made him dull. He couldn't think, though at that point he didn't especially care. He was completely drained of energy, most of the time he was only alert for brief intervals before oblivion reclaimed him. His doctors continued to assure him that this was normal after all that he'd suffered, and that these drugs were necessary to facilitate his recovery. Everyone who visited him advised him to rest, to regain his strength.

A few cards and a vase of flowers were on the dresser, but he'd no idea who sent them. He couldn't turn on his side; more or less take four steps across the room to the dresser. He still felt as if he were straddling the barrier between the world of the living and that of the dead.

During that time, visitors appeared at random intervals, sometimes solo, sometimes in clusters. All of them were members of his lab. Most of the time, he faded in and out of sleep, with only faint recollections of any interactions with his company; he wasn't able to handle more than a few moments of light conversation. While he couldn't recall exactly who had visited and when, he was touched that every member of his team had stopped by. He didn't particularly understand why they'd come, but he was secretly glad that they did.

Fortunately, within days, the crushing weight of exhaustion began to lessen. He managed to keep his eyes open for more than a fifteen-minute stretch. Some of the horrible fuzziness within him had dissipated, but not completely. Not nearly as much as he had hoped. The pain was duller, yet omnipresent.

Although he still couldn't follow an involved conversation, he could remember bits and pieces. The inane joke Greg shared with him earlier that day was a complete mystery to him, but at least he could recall the man's crazy smile as he'd delivered the punch line. He could also recollect from more recent visits: Catherine's forced smiles, Sara's puffy eyes that avoided meeting his, along with Nick's good natured teasing, Warrick's supportive remarks, and Jim Brass's loyal presence.

Being alert for longer intervals was a mixed blessing. It was a sign that his body was healing, that he would be returning to his life, to the land of the living. Yet, it left him time to realize that he wouldn't simply be waltzing back into his old routines. This awkward transition was going to be horribly difficult and time consuming; he wasn't sure that he could handle it. The prospect was daunting.

His emotions, which were usually easy to ignore, confused him. Shouldn't he be thrilled just to be alive? Didn't most survivors of tragedies claim it renewed their zest and appreciation for life? Why didn't he feel that way? Instead of overwhelming relief or gratitude, he felt….well, he didn't feel at peace. Rather than having this second chance, he just wanted his life to be as it was before, and that was impossible.

As the days passed and his body continued to mend, extreme irritability overtook him, he become embarrassed that his lab members were seeing him in such a sorry state. He started to discourage their visits, even though part of him longed their company and their care.

He just wanted to be himself again. He wanted to be able to recall lines from Shakespeare, at will. He wanted to remember the odds of being hit by lightening on a golf course, or getting a certain poker hand. But most of all he wanted to be able to get up to go to the bathroom on his own again.

Nick and Jim hung back as a nurse gave detailed instructions to Grissom, who didn't appear to be very attentive. With impatience she gestured to several bottles of pills, which were on his bedside table.

"Just write it down, I'll figure it out," he snapped irritatably.

After the nurse finished, she left the room to get a wheelchair. Nick and Jim approached their friend, who was fully dressed and cautiously sitting upright for the first time in over two weeks.

"You ready for this?" Brass asked.

Grissom was still unable to put any weight on his ankle, though the fact that he'd finally gotten a hard cast, which effectively immobilized the bones, helped him with the pain. Due to his broken ribs, he'd only be able to use crutches for brief intervals. For now, Grissom was effectively an invalid, confined to a wheelchair.

"I don't know. You don't have to do this, you know," Grissom replied shortly. He'd become embarrassed to have his co-workers assisting him with such menial tasks. It felt degrading. He was also beginning to feel humiliated about how he'd injured himself. He felt it made him look like a fool, an old fool.

Nick sensed some of his boss's feelings and tried to distract him as they waited for the nurse's return. "You know, when I was a senior in high school, I broke my leg. Now, if it had been during football practice or better yet, a game, that would've been acceptable to me. But, I got drunk and tripped over a curb. Talk about embarrassing."

Grissom didn't seem to be responding but he plunged on anyway.

"You'd think the girls would know the difference, but they didn't. It was a drag being in traction, flat on my back for a month and a half. Then I had to use a wheel chair at school. But the girls were fighting each other for the chance to help me. By the time the prom came, I had beautiful girls asking _me_ to go. Every cloud has a silver lining, Griss."

Grissom merely grunted.

"Be glad you're alive," Nick gravely reminded him.

Grissom bit his tongue; he was getting sick and tired of being told to be grateful to be in this miserable state.

Within minutes, the nurse appeared with the wheel chair and the men gingerly transferred Grissom into it. It must have taken five minutes and three people to perform the process. And it hurt like hell. How on earth was he going to cope with simple everyday tasks?

The trip from his hospital room to Nick's Denali was sensory overload for him: the sounds, the smells, and all the voices. After all, he'd been isolated from the world for over two weeks. He tried to discretely cover his ears with his hands to muffle the assault of the noise.

After safely transferring Grissom into the vehicle, the men drove to pick up a rental wheelchair and crutches, then on to his townhouse. During the drive, he managed to rest some; even with this limited exertion, he was wiped out.

As he rested, he thought that perhaps it would be better to be at his house. All those doctors and nurses at the hospital, poking and prodding him, waking him up whenever they felt like, were grating his nerves. Perhaps he could get more comfortable at home, with peace and quiet. Maybe that would help him feel more like himself.

Yet, as the SUV approached his townhouse, he started feeling nauseous. Had one of his many drugs enhanced motion sickness? Regardless, when the vehicle finally pulled into his driveway, Grissom was practically choking on the bile rising in his throat.

What was wrong with him? Had the doctors made a mistake and released him too early? Or was there yet another medical problem for him to deal with? He tried to remain calm and not panic.

Nick and Jim got out of the SUV then struggled to unload and unfold the wheel chair.

Damn, he was even having trouble breathing; he closed his eyes and attempted to slow it down. He didn't need to further humiliate himself in front of his co-workers. His body was drenched in sweat from the efforts of the day. He needed a shower.

"What's wrong?" Brass came to the window. He'd just finished assembling the wheelchair. He was concerned by his friend's lack of color and rapid breathing.

Grissom didn't say a word. He couldn't vocalize the dread building up inside of him, nor did he want to attempt it.

Jim wasn't sure what was going through his friend's mind, but he tried to reassure him. "It'll be okay. Take it one step at a time. We're here for you."

With great effort, he and Nick transferred Grissom into the wheelchair and brought him to the door of his townhouse.

"I hope you don't mind," Jim explained cautiously, fully expecting vehement objections. "We had copies of your key made for us, so we could help you out."

Grissom didn't respond at all. He was privately struggling with his overpowering urge to vomit.

Jim and Nick exchanged surprised glances. Nick shrugged then used his key to open the door. As he wheeled Grissom in through the doorway, Jim carried his suitcase and crutches into the bedroom.

Grissom couldn't help himself; he was staring towards his bathroom. Nick noticed immediately, and came closer to him.

"It's okay. We cleaned it up for you. It's as good as new. We also picked up some food for the refrigerator. Can I fix you something to eat?"

Strangely enough, the intense waves of nausea disappeared as rapidly as they'd started. A deep sense of gratitude flooded Grissom. Perhaps it was just anxiety about facing the 'scene of the crime' that was bothering him. However, as much as he appreciated Nick's generous offer, he just wanted to go to sleep.

In a much kinder tone, Grissom replied, "No thanks Nick, I think I just need to lie down."

Jim and Nick helped him to his bedroom. They offered to help him change clothes, but Grissom refused. After transferring him on to his bed, they arranged the wheelchair and his crutches for easy access for him. They clipped his cell phone onto his pants. Grissom was drifting off during the entire process.

"Do you have any meds you have to take?" Jim asked.

Grissom grumbled something.

Jim reminded him, "You've got a doctor's appointment tomorrow. Catherine will be by to take you to it. Also, the visiting nurse will be by early to help you figure things out. I'll stop by later tomorrow to see how you're doing. Hey, Gil." Grissom was fading fast. "Anytime, anything, you call me, okay?"

"Thanks Jim."

TBC


	3. Reinventing the Wheel

Thanks again for all your wonderful reviews! Those of you who are anxious about Sara, be patient! This is most definitely a G/S piece, she's appearing soon. 

Chapter 3 Reinventing the Wheel 

After transferring Grissom from her Denali to his wheelchair, Catherine paused to catch her breath. Maneuvering Grissom in and out of a vehicle and wheelchair had been difficult enough for two men the previous day, but Catherine managed to pull it off. She wiped beads of sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand and then searched her pocket for her keys.

Grissom was also breathing heavily, winded from the exertion.

She began to push the wheelchair up the walk to his front door.

"So, your next appointment is in a week?" she asked.

"Yeah, Jim said he'd take me to the next one," Grissom explained.

They'd reached his doorway, yet Catherine lingered, seemingly reluctant to enter his house.

"Sara said she's coming by sometime," Catherine tentatively mentioned.

"No," he strongly responded.

Her eyes registered surprise at his tone. "Gil, she wants to help. We all do. Don't shut us out."

"No," he repeated, softer this time, almost sadly. He couldn't bear the thought of her seeing him like this.

Slightly sarcastic, she replied, "I'll guess you'll have to tell her yourself."

She placed her key into the lock and turned it. Grissom's eyebrow arched. When did she get a copy of his key? Before he could question her, she swiftly pushed him into his living room.

"You need anything?" Catherine didn't sit down; suddenly she seemed wired. Since she'd just finished a shift and had a heavy workout, lugging Grissom around, in addition to her personal responsibilities, she had every reason to be tired.

"I'm okay Catherine. Thanks," he mumbled.

She twisted her hands together. "You sure?"

No. He wasn't okay. In fact, he was desperately ashamed that part of him wanted to beg her to stay, even just a while. He tried valiantly to quash those disturbing emotions.

"Yeah. I'll be fine," he spoke with more assurance than he felt.

Looking towards the door, she apologized, "I gotta run."

"You don't need my permission."

She strode towards the door then looked back towards him. "Gil, if you need anything."

"I know, I know." He'd heard this mantra multiple times over the last twelve hours. "Go."

The front door closed behind her.

Catherine didn't seem like herself. She'd talked too fast, as if she was nervous and her facial expressions didn't seem genuine. But he wasn't himself either. He didn't know the man he'd become. He didn't like him very much.

This morning, the visiting nurse, who had stopped by to check on his head wound, gave him valuable advice about how to perform minor tasks, given his current limitations. It all sounded deceptively simple when she described things; he was finding out that it was not. Getting dressed had been a major undertaking. Who was he kidding, every task he'd faced that entire day had felt as if he were tackling major obstacles.

The nurse had offered to stay that morning to assist him with bathing and dressing, but he'd dismissed her. He was tired of being taken care of by strangers; he wanted his privacy back.

He hated feeling so weak and dependent upon other people. He was bound and determined to master as many skills as he could to take care of himself. If it took an hour to get dressed, well, he had no place in particular to go. And hopefully he'd improve with practice. It wasn't going to be easy.

Sweat poured out of his body, every motion he made seemed to require great reserves of energy. He was weary, and he wanted to take a long hot shower to feel cleaner. The nurse had brought by a plastic chair for him to sit in while in the bathtub. Yet, that seemed a little too complicated for him to manage for it involved such skills as getting in and out of the bathtub, and keeping his cast dry. Maneuvering in the bathroom just to use the toilet was a nightmare.

And it was absolutely impossible to consider, just looking in the general direction of his bathroom invoked his gag reflex. Okay, no showers for now. He could handle sponge baths, although he'd no idea how he was supposed to wash his hair. He didn't really care.

Those were only the beginning of his concerns. As he'd rested in his hospital bed, he couldn't think clearly, it was as if a smokescreen had covered parts of his brain so his neurons and axons couldn't communicate properly with one another. He kept telling himself that it had to get better when he left the hospital. It had to, or he'd lose his sanity.

Although his outer surroundings had changed, his prison remained the same. While he could think more clearly than last week, his concentration was shot. That morning he tried to read a forensics journal, to utilize his off-work time effectively. After fifteen minutes of struggling with the first paragraphs, he dejectedly gave up. It was even difficult for him to follow some television programs.

His mind felt like a dull blade scrapping away trying to make a clean cut but only able to make a feeble gnash; completely ineffective and useless.

His brain, his primary source of pride and joy, was a mess. He felt as if an essential part of him had been left on that bathroom floor. Would he ever get it back?

He idly pushed his wheelchair about the living room; he had no idea what to do with himself. His intellect had always driven his pursuits. His wealth of books and species were useless to him at this point, unless he just looked at the pictures. He couldn't bring himself to sink that low.

He tried to put some music on the stereo; that was usually soothing. Yet, he couldn't reach the system from his wheelchair and he was conserving his strength for using the crutches under more pressing circumstances.

He'd never spent much time at his home. Other than a rare visit from Brass or Catherine, he'd never entertained. He'd never wanted to. No date had ever set foot in here. Most of his social needs, along with his intellectual stimulation, were more than fully satisfied at work. Even his pets were at the office. The lab was more like his home than his town house had ever been. This was the place he slept, where he kept his belongings. And now it had become his world.

It would be tempting to go to the lab, just to be where he felt most comfortable. But he didn't have that option. The pure humiliation of having his team see him in such a sorry state was sufficient to squelch any of those impulses. Besides, he'd only be frustrating himself even more; he wouldn't be able to comprehend what was going on there either.

En route to his doctor's appointment, Catherine had tried to ask him some simple procedural questions; she was filling in for him during his extended absence. She swiftly backed off as she realized that he didn't have answers

God must be laughing at him, he thought bitterly, for an asinine quote taunted him,

And all he could do was to sit, sit, sit, sit 

_And he did not like it,_

_Not one little bit. (Theodore Geisel)_

Being bored was a foreign concept to him; he'd never experienced it. Now the two of them would become well acquainted. He'd also never felt especially lonely, in terms of just companionship. He wasn't one to call another person up just to chat. So why was he feeling anxious for company now?

Ouch, his neck ached. That's what he deserved; falling asleep slumped over like some old geezer in a wheelchair. His healing body didn't want to adjust to an eight-hour sleep cycle; instead, it mercilessly demanded sleep in intermittent intervals, whenever it wanted. Supposedly this was part of the recovery process. It wasn't too much of a hassle for him, since he was used to working night shift, and he was also accustomed to catching sleep at odd intervals, whenever he could. Yet, being home, alone, without a clear demarcation between day and night, could present some problems.

What did other people do when these types of injuries occurred? How did they take care of themselves? He knew the answer to that. They had families. Devoted wives of fifteen plus years, brothers or sisters, or even adult children. It wasn't as if he had no family, his mother loved him. But with her advanced age, it was difficult for her to even attempt to visit him; taking care of him was out of the question. Besides, it wasn't a mother's job to take care of her nearly 50-year-old son. It was a wife's.

Why was he thinking about this stuff anyway? It wasn't as if he had any strong candidates for the position. His last association with a woman had been anything but traditional.

He still berated himself for sleeping with Lady Heather. What was he thinking? Talk about potentially messing up his professional reputation, he certainly hadn't been using his brain then. But, somehow, she knew the burden of his secret, of his impending deafness. She knew, and that eased the unbearable weight for him. She didn't need him to tear his heart out for her, to share his entire life with her. She accepted him as he was. The fact that she was good-looking, smart, and considered him attractive was merely icing on the cake.

It was a safer outlet for him too. A chance for sex with no other messy attachments; he didn't have to make any deep emotional connection with her. He was in completely in charge in that relationship, he called all the shots, and he had all the power. She knew the rules. It was an irresistible setup.

While he cared for Lady Heather and he was physically attracted to her, his heart had nothing to do with that association. She couldn't hurt him. But she couldn't help him either. He didn't envision her coming over with chicken soup to visit him. The relationship, if you could call it that, had no future; it hadn't lasted long. Besides the last time he'd slept with her, he'd inadvertently called her another woman's name

Terri Miller had been a more promising candidate; beautiful and his intellectual equal in the field of science. Once again, the demands of his job had effectively quashed any potential relationship. Now she was happily married to a teacher.

There had been a few dates here and there. Nobody special.

You know, by the time you figure it out, you really could be too late. 

NO. He almost covered his ears with his hands. NO. He couldn't think about her. He had even less to offer her now.

"You want a beer?" Brass offered.

Grissom laughed ruefully, "You've got to be kidding, with all the medication I've got in me."

"Sorry."

The two men were sitting in Grissom's living room, sharing a pizza. Grissom mostly picked at his, he wasn't very hungry. Brass tried to make himself comfortable on the couch as he flipped through the TV channels.

"Hey, the Giants are playing."

"I hate sports," Grissom replied, devoid of emotion.

Jim left the game on, sensing that nothing would please his friend. He'd been surly during his entire visit.

"So, what have you been up too?"

Grissom sighed, wondering if he should tell the long version or the short one. He'd go with the short one, he was feeling irritable and tired.

"Besides my doctor's appointment and sleeping, not much."

"Can't enjoy your life of leisure?" Jim half-joked.

Grissom rolled his eyes, "I can't concentrate."

Surprised by his friend's admission, Jim tried not to make a big deal of it. "Hey, you've been through a lot. It's gonna take a while to get back to normal. And you don't have to read forensics journals. Why don't you try the newspaper or do simpler crossword puzzles? Until you're back to your old self."

"I don't know. I just want to be myself again," he dejectedly responded.

"Nick and Warrick want to know if you'd like them to come by sometime to play poker."

"No." It was bad enough for Jim and Catherine to see him like this. He didn't think he could handle anyone else knowing what he'd become.

Jim misunderstood his reluctance. "C'mon Gil, you've seen all sorts of freak accidents. You of all people know this stuff can happen to anyone, especially in bathrooms. The EMTs respond to tons of calls for bathroom related accidents, which happen to people of all ages. This could've happened to anyone."

Grissom didn't respond.

"Besides, it's probably the drugs that have your head messed up. Once you're done with them, I'm sure you'll be yourself again."

TBC


	4. A Poorly Designed Experiment

Thanks again for all your kinds reviews, especially Crys – you made my day! 

And thanks as always to Leslie for her greatly appreciated input.

Chapter 4 A Poorly Designed Experiment 

The blaring of a television infomercial woke Grissom from dead slumber He had to stop doing this; his neck became so stiff when he slept in the wheelchair. He hadn't planned on falling asleep, fully clothed, in front of the television; yet somehow he'd managed to doze off for several hours. Ironically, he never felt refreshed or energized after sleeping; somehow he remained trapped in a constantly groggy state.

The wall clock showed that it was a little after five in the morning. Although it was still dark outside, it would be useless to go through the effort of getting into his bed at this point. He wasn't looking forward to facing yet another uneventful, plodding day. Time seemed to creep by so slowly; he'd never experienced that before. He didn't know what to do with himself.

At least yesterday, he'd had the nurse's visit, his trip to the doctor with Catherine, and Brass brought over dinner. And that had been challenging to deal with. The prospect of facing an entirely new day without any outside diversions was disturbing.

His crew would be finishing their shift soon. Perhaps he could call one of them to drop by to join him for breakfast? What was he thinking? He couldn't figure himself out. When he was by himself, he felt incredibly lonely, craving the presence of another human being. However, when people were actually with him, they grated his nerves, he found himself purposely being unpleasant so they wouldn't want to stay long. What was wrong with him? These contradictory feelings didn't make any sense, it wasn't logical.

Resigned to facing the day by himself, he wheeled himself over to the refrigerator to pour a glass of orange juice. The carton felt light; he was almost out. Damn, he hadn't thought out the whole grocery thing, yet another obstacle to deal with. He'd figure it out later; it wasn't as if he needed many supplies, he hadn't had much of an appetite anyway. He knew he should try to eat something, especially with all the medication he was taking; but nothing seemed appealing to him. He'd make himself eat some soup or a sandwich, later, for lunch.

Grissom reached for the plastic pill dispenser on his kitchen counter. The nurse had arranged his medication for him, placing each day's pills into an appropriate box. Time and frequency for each drug were noted on a post-it attached to the lid. Curious, he perused the note, wondering what he was actually ingesting. One appeared to be an antibiotic, which made sense. Another was possibly a sedative, he wasn't entirely sure; as if he needed to sleep more. And at least two others seemed to be for pain, which included several daily doses; that seemed a bit excessive.

He placed the presumed antibiotics in his mouth and chased them with a swallow of orange juice. Hmm, wasn't there something about the acidity of orange juice interfering with ability of the stomach to metabolize drugs? Or maybe it was grapefruit juice? Like so many other facts locked away in his mind, he just couldn't grasp it. His frustration was rapidly giving way to despair. Yet rather than feeling sorry for himself, what could he do about it?

Another swallow of orange juice followed the possible sedative. As he was about to place the two final pills in his mouth, he paused. Did he really need to take two drugs for pain? Frankly, he'd been feeling much better in that respect. Rather than pain, the blasted vagueness of his mind was plaguing him. Perhaps…perhaps he could reclaim part of his brain by cutting back on non-essential medication? And if the pain came back, he'd just take the pills. No problem.

A piece of his brain tried to argue that there was something inherently wrong with this strategy, but he couldn't hear it. Nor did he want to. Finally, something he could do to improve his predicament.

He returned the pills to the dispenser and closed it, and then he rolled into the living room. He supposed that he should bath and change into clean clothes, but the fact that it wasn't even light outside discouraged him from that activity. Later, he'd do it later. He picked up a newspaper Jim had brought over last night, and attempted to read.

"Hello?"

Grissom started, he must have zoned out for a while; sunlight was spilling in through the windows. He placed his newspaper in his lap.

"Hello?" a female voice called.

His front door opened. How many people had copies of his keys? Oh God, it was Sara; his heart beat faster in his chest. She closed the door behind her and walked towards him. She'd come directly from work; she was wearing her CSI vest with her photo identification badge clipped onto it.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" She smiled nervously.

"Lousy," he mumbled as he tried to avoid looking at her. His stomach was bothering him more than usual.

A full-scale war was also waging within him. Part of him was thrilled to see her and overjoyed by her company, while the other portion was mortified beyond belief that she was seeing him in such horrendous condition, especially since he'd slept in his clothes and hadn't bathed in two days. His pride was deeply wounded.

As usual, Sara tended to ramble when she was anxious. "I'll bet it's great to be back home after being in the hospital so long. It must be nice to be sleeping in your own bed again." Some intense emotions threatened to erupt as she said, "It's so great to see you in real clothes instead of that hospital..gown." She swallowed hard to regain her composure, and then she tried to be more upbeat. "I brought you some breakfast." She held up a bag. "Pancakes sound okay?"

Grissom was so consumed by his thoughts he didn't notice that her hands were trembling.

"I'm not really hungry." The mere mention of food was making him gag.

It was completely unacceptable to him that she was seeing him looking like a helpless old man. Maybe if he ignored her, she'd just go away. He could feel his cheeks becoming warm, as his shame increased.

She placed the bag on the kitchen table and began to remove its contents.

"C'mon, you need to eat. You gotta get your strength back." She tried to remain cheerful, but his less than enthusiastic reception disturbed her. She turned to the kitchen cabinets, "Where do you keep your plates?"

The humiliated portion of him was rapidly winning this battle. "No." He was firm.

Sara always was perceptive; she recognized that she wasn't wanted. She bit her lip as she abruptly shoved the food back into the sack. "Fine, have it later." She opened the refrigerator and tossed the bag inside.

"Do you need anything?" She sounded angry, but even in his pathetic condition, he knew better. If only he could avoid her eyes, the hurt there was searing through him like hot coals. No matter what he did in the next moment, he would be a complete jerk.

"No, just leave me alone." As he expected, his dismissive tone and those words were the final nail in the coffin.

"Fine," she gasped hoarsely. She strode towards the door, while taking a deep breath.

He'd gotten what he wanted; he'd driven her away. And she'd most likely never come back. Somehow, it didn't feel like a victory at all.

Suddenly, the other part of him, that responded to the emotions reflected in her eyes, mutinied. It desperately wanted to rectify the harm that he'd just inflicted. It wanted her to stay, regardless of his poor condition. He shocked himself by shouting after her.

"Sara!"

"What?" She'd just reached the doorknob, and she was equally surprised by his call. She sniffed and discretely wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.

What could he say? He couldn't handle much at the moment. He needed an excuse. Deliberating trying not to sound grouchy, he asked, "Could you get me some orange juice? If it's not too much trouble."

Confused, she agreed. "Okay. You need anything else?"

It was as close to an apology as he could muster. He just hoped that she would recognize it for the pathetic attempt it was. "I don't know, I just feel so rotten. I'm not that hungry."

Apparently, it was accepted. "We'll figure something out when I get back." She smiled meekly as she left.

After he finished reading what he could of the newspaper, Grissom had drifted back to sleep. His dreams were disturbing; he tossed and moaned. Yet waking up provided no relief for him. Cold sweat covered his body; he was practically shaking as waves of raw pain washed over him. The nerve endings in his ankle and near his ribs burned as if they were on fire. It was as if he were back on that bathroom floor, lying in agony, waiting to die. In fact, his addled brain wasn't fully convinced that he wasn't still lying in a pool of his own blood.

He was terrified to move, remembering how it had knocked him out for such long periods of time. All rational sections of his mind had shut down, only the purely animalistic emotional side ruled. Thus he couldn't remember what caused this situation. He was also incapable of rationally deciding to get his medicine himself, or even using his cell phone to call for help. He was scared and he didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to make the horrendous pain go away.

It could have been minutes or hours before he heard her.

"Oh my God! What's wrong?" He heard a panicked cry as footsteps raced towards him.

"Make it stop, please make the pain go away." He begged in a raspy voice; he was too far-gone to have any remnant of pride holding him back.

"Where are your pills?" The question was repeated several times, rather insistently, before he was able to point towards the kitchen.

He heard her frantic voice speaking with someone over the phone, although he wasn't able to follow the details.

Within minutes, pills were placed in his mouth, followed by the lip of a glass of water to sip from. Unfortunately, it could take at least an hour to begin to build up the clinically effective levels of painkillers in his bloodstream. Thankfully, relief was in sight.

"Why the hell do you do that?" Sara sank down on his couch, opposite him. After she'd effectively handled the emergency, her emotions overcame her. Her body trembled as tears spilled out of her eyes. "Why didn't you take your medicine?"

He didn't have an answer for her; he himself couldn't remember his rationale at that particular moment.

Sara dabbed her eyes with a tissue, yet her tears just trickled faster down her face. "Do you want to die?"

He was besieged with pain, and still having trouble differentiating between reality and his previous ordeal. His protective barriers were no longer functioning. His raw emotions poured out. "Of course not, I fought it as hard as I could. But then I reached a point where, I didn't have a choice any more. I accepted it. I was ready to die. So why the hell am I still here? Why? It doesn't make any sense."

"Do you really want to die?" her anguished voice sadly repeated, filled with confusion.

The intensity of his emotions was crushing him, leading him to despair. His voice grew hoarse. "I don't know. What's the point of being alive like this? What good am I to anyone? I can't do anything. I can barely think."

"It takes time, you know that." She grabbed his hands and tried to reassure him. She massaged his palm with her thumb as her eyes fixed onto his cobalt blue ones.

Something in those brown eyes spoke to him, reassured him. He held her gaze as he blurted out his fear. "What if I'm never the same person?"

She spoke softly, trying to comfort him. "Then you deal with it. You have to take things one day at a time, Griss. I know it's frustrating but it takes time to heal. You have to give yourself time."

He shook his head as other fears that he couldn't even name filled his mind. Fears that haunted his dreams and tormented his thoughts. "For God's sake, I'm even afraid of my own bathroom. What the hell is wrong with me?"

Instinctively, Sara sprang forward to put her arms around him and hold him, which was a bit awkward to coordinate when one person was in a wheelchair. She ended up gingerly perched on his lap. Even if Grissom wasn't ready for her embrace, she couldn't restrain herself; she hated to see him suffering. She gently rubbed his back with her hand as his head pressed against her shoulder.

"I don't have any answers for you, I wish I did. I haven't been through what you have. I have a feeling that your reactions are perfectly normal. I think you need professional help."

Even half-out of his mind, Grissom objected to this. Pulling back to look her straight in the eye, he said, "No."

Sara explained, "Let me put it another way, no one can help you if you don't try to help yourself. You need to eat better. You need to take your medication properly. You need to take better care of yourself, with bathing and changing your clothes. I can help you with some of these things, but I have no clue how to help you work through dealing with coming that close to dying. Please."

He grabbed her hand tightly, as if he were a drowning man clinging to a life preserver. He felt as if he was sinking fast and she was the only anchor in sight. Whatever he recognized within her sparkling brown orbs was his lighthouse beacon, guiding him to safety.

"Okay."

Later on, he'd wonder how on earth she'd talked him into it, for it went against his principles, and every fiber of his being. Men didn't need to talk about their feelings. That was completely unnecessary and just plain wrong. Yet once he agreed to see a psychiatrist, she refused to let him weasel out of it.

Sara had calmed down enough to take care of her patient. "We need to get some food into you. Your doctor wants you to take an extra sedative so you can rest until the painkillers become effective. Can you try some soup?"

"I guess so." Grissom wasn't overly enthusiastic.

Sara heated up some chicken soup and brought it over in a mug for him to try. She coaxed him to drink at least half of it, and then she helped him get onto his bed. Once he took the sedative, he rapidly fell asleep.

His bedroom was dark when he opened his eyes again, only a few beams of light from the hallway streamed into the room. He'd lost almost an entire day. The excruciating pain had finally dissipated, replaced by the nebulous mind-numbing foggy sensation. He actually welcomed it with open arms. His memory of the ordeal earlier that day was vague though he remembered Sara's insistence that he needed to take better care of himself. He also remembered that she had saved him. And strangely enough, for the first time since his accident, rather than feeling humiliated, he was grateful.

He tried sitting up, he was groggy but he needed to use the bathroom.

"Hey." Sara came to the door. "Need a hand?"

Since he was so weak and partially asleep, he allowed her to help him into to his wheelchair. For a slight woman, she was surprising strong. Once he reached the bathroom door, he grabbed the crutches and half-smiled at her. "I think I can handle it from here."

After taking care of business, Grissom wheeled himself into the living room where Sara was sitting on the couch, reading one of his forensics journals.

"Don't you have to work tonight?"

"Um…yeah, but Catherine's covering for me."

His eyebrow arched. He didn't feel comfortable with her missing work on his account.

She defended her actions. "I'm not leaving here until you've stabilized. You have to stop scaring me like this."

He wheeled closer to the couch.

Trying to change the subject, Sara explained, "I made an appointment for you with Dr. Walker. It's tomorrow afternoon. You'll see him weekly. I'll take you to all your appointments so it will be private."

He started to object but the glare she shot at him made him change his mind.

"I also made arrangements for a male visiting nurse to come by every other day to help you with bathing and other things you might need."

Grissom was suddenly too tired to object.

More gently, she asked, "Is it better? Has the pain gone away?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

She rose to grab the handle of the wheelchair. "Let's get you back to bed. The nurse is coming tomorrow between eight and nine o'clock and I'll come by after noon to take you to the doctor."


	5. An Intriguing Question

Once again, thanks for all your reviews! They're greatly appreciated. And Crys, you made my day again! Love to hear from you! 

Since I'm going away for a few days, I'm posting this chapter a little earlier than usual.

Chapter 5 An Intriguing Question 

"So, why are you here?" The stocky, blonde man with wire-framed glasses and graying temples posed his question from his seat in his black leather office chair.

Grissom ignored him and examined the office: the stark modern décor, the black leather couch and chairs, the impressive array of diplomas framed on the walls, the tomes of psychiatric texts filling the wire bookshelves, and the family photos perched on top of his relatively clutter free desk.

Dr. Walker cleared his throat to attract his attention. "A-hem."

Grissom stared at him. "I have no idea."

"Why did you come, then?"

"I made a promise." He ruefully admitted. This wasn't going to work. This stuff was soft science; it wasn't well documented. The research wasn't the least bit objective. This was a waste of time.

"To the lady in the waiting room?" the doctor suggested.

"That would be none of your business." Grissom used his infamous dismissive tone to indicate that subject was off limits.

Sensing some hostility, the doctor asked a different question. "How do you feel?"

Grissom balled his hands into fists; he wasn't comfortable in this realm. With growing frustration, he answered, "Who cares how I feel, it doesn't matter."

Dr. Walker's expression remained neutral. He tried another approach. "Tell me about yesterday. Your friend sounded pretty scared when she spoke with me over the phone."

"I did something stupid." Grissom sheepishly admitted while staring at his clenched fists.

"Why?"

He sighed, wondering once again how Sara had convinced him to do this. Yesterday had been horrifying in many respects. He wouldn't feel comfortable talking about it with his closest friends; it was out of the question for him to discuss it with a complete stranger. He couldn't do it.

As the silence dragged on, the doctor casually made notes on his legal pad. Strangely enough, the lingering quiet didn't bother Dr. Walker. In his years of interrogating people, Grissom had noticed that after a minute, most people became so uncomfortable that they would blather about anything just to fill the void. Yet, Grissom wasn't like most people, that trick wouldn't work on him.

He continued to examine the office, though his gaze kept lingering on the photos on the desk. In the past, he would've been madly skimming the diplomas to discover which institution actually accredited this doctor, or he even would've examined the titles of the journals, purely out of intellectual curiosity. In fact, if he'd been in this situation only weeks ago, he would've selected a journal article to read, being sure to laugh loudly at poor experimental designs, and make comments, emphasizing any specious research practices.

As time plodded by, Grissom begrudgingly admitted that Sara was right about taking better care of himself. While he despised the idea of a stranger assisting him with bathing, his overall appearance and general odor had greatly improved, which consequently impacted his morale. The toast he'd eaten for breakfast, along with the sandwich Sara made him for lunch, helped his medication settle better in his stomach. It wasn't a miracle, but it was an improvement.

His inner battle over Sara had quieted, momentarily. A truce had been drawn. With yesterday's events, he didn't have much of a choice in accepting her help. Yet, she didn't pity him; that he felt in his bones. Somehow, something in those beautiful brown eyes told him that it was okay -- to rest, to trust her. He didn't fully understand it, and he wasn't in any condition to analyze it. Whatever it was that he sensed within her, he hungered for it and he wasn't about to torture himself dwelling on whether or not to accept it. He clung to what he needed.

After a lengthy interval, Dr. Walker commented, "I'm sure your doctors have told you that it will take some time for your body to heal. How do you feel about that?"

There was that word again. He said the first thing that popped into his mind. "Impatient. I want my old life back."

"That's understandable. But it's going to take a while. Are you finding this to be a difficult adjustment period?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He tried to ignore the questions but Sara's words continued to haunt him.

_You have to help yourself._

Once again, his thoughts reminded him that she'd been right so far. And yesterday was a clear indication that he wasn't handling things well on his own. He'd acted illogically and the grievously sad part was that he still didn't fully understand why his plan hadn't succeeded. There had to be a solid reason, he just couldn't figure it out with the murkiness encompassing his brain.

It had to be the drugs fogging his head, making him stupid. Even Brass had agreed with that assessment. Yet, that morning, another disturbing possibility had popped into his head.

Perhaps he should try to play along with the doctor. He didn't know any of the rules for coping with his new and limited existence. He'd never been good with his feelings, and suddenly they were overpowering him and attempting to take over. He needed help.

This was going to be incredibly weird. "I can't…I can't think clearly."

Although he realized this was a substantial admission, the doctor maintained his even tone. "I'm sure your doctors have assured you that the medication you're taking is responsible for the majority of this."

Grissom rolled his eyes and sighed, he was sick of hearing this.

"It's understandable that a man of your intellect would be concerned about this. Do you have any reason to believe that it's not the medicine?"

Grissom's heart began to thud louder. Why in the hell was his brain being so capricious? He could remember some things but not others. He wished he couldn't remember this. "Severe dehydration can produce brain damage," he recited as if quoting from a textbook.

"That's true. Have you discussed this with your doctor?"

"I don't think so." He was ashamed that he couldn't remember. Yet at that very moment, he had a hazy recollection of his doctor frowning and telling him that head injuries were very tricky and that he wanted to be sure to do a CAT scan at his next appointment. That didn't sound promising.

"I'm sure they're monitoring you for this possibility. But bring it up during your next appointment, for your peace of mind. Even if that is a possibility, at this point nothing else can be done, only time will tell."

Grissom couldn't vocalize his intense gnawing fear that he would never be the same again.

However, Dr. Walker seemed to eavesdrop on his thoughts. "In your situation, you need to take one day at a time. Don't focus too much on the future; it will just frustrate you at this point. Instead of driving yourself crazy trying to be who you were, create some new habits for who you are right now."

"Like what?"

"If you can't concentrate on reading, try listening to music or going for a walk."

Grissom's eyebrow arched sarcastically as he patted the rim of the wheelchair.

"You know what I mean. Explore new venues. Try to make the best of your situation. And keep reminding yourself that, most likely, it's only temporary."

That wasn't very helpful.

Dr. Walker checked the clock to discover that their time was up. "Same time next week?"

Grissom reluctantly nodded then placed his hands on the wheel chair to prepare to maneuver it towards the door, he was weak and still a novice at this, it took him some time. The doctor made additional notes on his legal pad then placed it on top of the desk. When Grissom managed to reach the office doorway, Dr Walker cryptically commented.

"It was all clear, wasn't it? Just before you accepted that you were going to die."

Grissom hesitated. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. He stared at the doctor, his attention fully captivated.

"You know I'm right. Think about it, it'll come to you. What were you thinking about?"

He had no idea what the doctor was talking about. If he'd experienced such a revelation, it was lost somewhere within the dark recesses of his mind.

Ignoring his patient's confusion, Dr. Walker confidently stated, "You can tell me about it next week."

With a flourish, Sara laid her tiles down on the game board. Beaming, she claimed, "Q-U-A-N-D-A-R-Y, quandary, that's gonna score big time." She eagerly leaned over the board to tabulate her score.

Grissom trusted her calculations; he closed his eyes to better absorb the beauty of Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons", which was filling the room. Sara had moved his stereo system to a lower shelf so he could access it more easily. It was amazing how a little thing like music soothed him. He still couldn't concentrate but he wasn't as irritable.

On the other hand, Scrabble was another story.

"Your turn."

He stared at his letters. He was becoming discouraged. He'd played scrabble with Sara once or twice before and while she was a worthy opponent; he'd usually beaten her. Now she had a hefty lead. Typically he enjoyed the challenge of coming up with obscure words that utilized the high point value letters, but his mind wouldn't cooperate. It wasn't as much fun to play using boring, conventional words, not having the competitive edge.

He placed his tiles on the board. "M-A-S-K, mask."

Sara sensed that his interest in the game was waning. "You want to continue this another time? I have to go soon."

Grissom checked his watch. It was a few hours before night shift started.

"I promised Catherine I 'd go in early to process something. I owe her a favor," she explained.

The all too familiar twinges of fear about being alone gripped his stomach, though he wouldn't admit it. He'd had enough emotional honesty for one day.

He hated to have her leave. Her presence was strangely comforting. Sara didn't seem to expect highly stimulating conversation. Surprisingly enough, she didn't even grill him about the psychiatrist or try to discuss yesterday's fiasco. Perhaps she was as tired as he was, he thought, for he wasn't sure when she'd had time to sleep in the last twenty-four hours.

"Okay." He maneuvered his wheelchair away from the table.

"What are you doing for dinner?" Sara asked.

"I'll figure something out," Grissom assured her. It wouldn't be fancy, but eating regularly made a huge difference in how he felt.

She didn't believe him. More sternly she reminded him, "Grissom, you have to eat right."

"I know, I will," he emphasized. "I'll be fine." Although he wasn't entirely convinced himself, she needed to go to work.

"You're taking your medication?" She didn't want to be a nag, but she had to ask.

"Of course."

Somewhat reluctantly, Sara gathered her things to prepare to leave.

"So, do you need anything?"

"Sara, I'm fine. Go to work."

As she strode towards the door, he wondered if he was using Sara. Was it fair for her to play nursemaid to an older man who might never be whole again? He valiantly tried to ignore those voices.

After opening the door, she turned back to ask, "Um…would you like me to come by sometime, maybe bring some movies?"

Firmly burying his doubts, he replied, "Yeah, that would be nice."

Grissom was inordinately proud of himself. Somehow, he'd managed to prepare a sandwich and heat up some tomato soup without any disasters occurring. Clean up seemed a bit more challenging. He'd piled his dishes in the sink and was just contemplating whether he wanted to put them into the dishwasher or try to wash them himself, when someone knocked on his door.

"Hello." It was Brass, who let himself in.

Grissom wheeled out of the kitchen to meet his friend in the living room.

"What are you doing here?" Only two nights before, Brass had stopped by on his night off. He was pleased to see his friend.

Brass attempted to make himself comfortable on the leather couch. Making a face, he said, "You need to get more comfortable furniture. Something with decent cushions."

Somewhat sarcastically, Grissom responded, "Thanks for the advice."

Brass was good at getting to the point. "I don't have much time, I have to get to work but…are you okay? Sara didn't give us any details but Catherine said she was pretty upset about something that happened here yesterday."

Grissom was becoming exasperated; he almost wished Sara had relayed all the details so others wouldn't keep bothering him about it. He had no desire to rehash any part of yesterday. Though, Jim was a friend and he had stopped by just because he was concerned. He owed him something.

"Something did happen. But it's under control, everything's okay."

Brass seemed satisfied; he knew he wasn't going to get any more information than that. "You look better. How are you feeling?"

"Maybe a little better. I'm getting more practice moving around like this," he explained as he yawned. Being clean and eating right helped a lot as well.

"Everyone in the lab says hello. Nick wants to drop off some weights for you so you can strengthen your arms, and Warrick wants to know if you'd like to play chess sometime."

Grissom was touched by everyone's concern. He wasn't offended that Nick and Warrick hadn't dropped by on their own, even though they most likely had copies of his keys too. There was an unspoken agreement among most men that you got together to _do_ things, not just to chat. (Although he was grateful that Jim stopped by.) They understood that most men didn't care for company when they weren't at their best, especially if the injured party was their supervisor. And they were respecting his privacy as well.

An unsettling thought occurred to Grissom.

"Does Greg have a copy of my key?"

Brass grinned, "Of course. We had to cover all bases. Don't worry, I don't think he'd abuse the privelege." Giving up on the couch, he walked towards the dining area.

"Tell Warrick I'm not up for chess. I can barely play Scrabble," Grissom mumbled.

Jim examined the game board on the dinning table. "Have company today?"

"Yeah, Sara was helping me. I was surprised that she stopped by." He was trying to be nonchalant about it, but not really succeeding. He wasn't sure how Jim would feel about him spending time with Sara. She was his subordinate and significantly younger than him. Grissom couldn't consider these issues presently.

Brass raised an eyebrow. "I'm not. You really don't remember much about the hospital, do you?"

Sensing his friend had information he wasn't ready to deal with, he simply shook his head then changed the subject.

"How's Catherine? I haven't seen much of her."

Jim seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "I think your accident bothered her more than she lets herself admit."

Grissom was concerned about Catherine, but he wasn't the type to initiate a phone call.

"I'll tell her you asked about her."

After Brass left, Grissom decided to go to bed. Although it was still early, the sun hadn't even set, it would take him a while to change clothes and physically get into his bed. He was dead tired and he hoped he had the energy to even perform those tasks.

As he struggled with his clothing, he wondered what was going on with Catherine. Her absence was perplexing, of all of his co-workers, she'd been over his house the most. She'd never had any qualms about interfering in his business. She'd even taken it upon herself to visit him, uninvited, in the hospital before his previous surgery. He hoped that she was okay and that she'd stop by soon.

Maybe he was reading too much into this, Catherine was covering for him at the lab. He didn't envy her the mountain of paperwork that greeted her. And he'd only been home for three days.

The quietness of his townhouse bothered him, he felt uneasy. He hated that he felt that way. Would he ever feel comfortable alone in his home again? He actually took his psychiatrist's advice and consciously tried to stop thinking about his future, or even about tomorrow, which loomed ahead with its gapping emptiness. One day at a time.

Although it had taken great effort to get into his bed, it was much more comfortable than sleeping in that chair. He closed his eyes, enjoying the support of his mattress, expecting sleep to overcome him at any minute.

Just as he was about to drift off, out of the blue, it came to him.

The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time. (Mark Twain)

He nearly sat back up, painfully jarring his ribs in the process. He was shocked by the clarity of that memory. That was it; that was part of what he'd been thinking while lying on the bathroom floor. But what did he conclude from it?

From where he sat presently, he couldn't imagine what might've been missing from his old life, which he so desperately longed for. What could've been lacking? He had a thriving career, sufficient income to suit his needs, dozens of exhilarating interests, and the respect of his peers. Had he contemplated any regrets? If so, what were they? Had he been able to conclude that he'd fully lived his life?

Dr. Walker was wrong; he was still lost.

TBC


	6. A Pleasant Interlude

Thanks for your wonderful comments, especially smryczko and Crys! They're greatly appreciated. Chapter 6 A Pleasant Interlude 

Time, once so fleeting, seemed to drag as if mired in maple syrup for Grissom. He endured the next day, entirely by himself. Although he was apprehensive about being alone, he managed to eat properly and take his medication. Sara's brief phone call from work had been his only human contact that day.

While he spent a great deal of time resting, he wasn't sure what to do with himself when he was awake. His books and journals were enticing; they silently beckoned to him, yet he was fully aware that he couldn't focus on anything remotely complicated. His brain was still encompassed by the hazy cloud. Instead he tried reading the newspaper, with some success, while purposely avoiding the crossword puzzle.

The Discovery Channel aired some shows he could follow, though programs involving history lost him in the details. The number of viewing options that were available pleasantly surprised him; yet he could only tolerate so much television.

His anger about his condition was giving way to uneasy resignation. Hadn't he read about a doctor who wrote about death and how the stages of grieving could be applied to other life situations as well? The premise was that individuals went through various stages in the grieving process, such as anger, denial, or bargaining. Some people worked through all of them, others only a few. But it was considered part of the normal healing process. What was her name? Kubler-something. Damn. The rest of the name, as well as the significance behind her work, eluded him.

He was rapidly losing his sense of purpose. How was he going to maintain his sanity at this rate? He'd only been alone for a day and he was bored. He reminded himself to take one day at a time. Maybe this time next week, his mind would be clearer or he'd feel less tired. It was all very frustrating.

And was he ever going to get better? Eventually his ankle would heal and the ribs would mend. He'd require physical therapy but he'd be able to walk and outwardly appear to function normally in the world. Yet had his ability to think been permanently compromised by his accident? Had his head injury or advanced dehydration caused him irreparable damage? Hopefully the information provided by the CAT scan at his next appointment would answer some of these questions.

He immediately shut down those thoughts, for it was pointless to waste his energy on something he couldn't influence. Instead he turned back to the question that arose the night before, that of regrets. However, as much as he tried, nothing came to mind, only…pictures? And they were of people he didn't recognize. What was the significance behind that?

"Close your eyes. No peeking," Sara warned with mock sternness. She'd just dropped by after completing an extended shift.

Grissom dutifully complied, wondering what she was plotting. He heard the front door open and close as she dashed to her Denali to retrieve something. Her footsteps echoed slightly as she approached him, then he heard a dull thud.

"Okay. You can open them." Excitement filled her voice.

Sara's infectious grin and sparkling brown eyes were the first sights he beheld. Even though her hair needed combing, her clothing was rumpled, and dark circles rimmed her eyes, that smile transformed her into a stunning woman. His breath caught in his throat as he found himself staring at her, captivated by her beauty. It'd been a long time since he'd allowed himself to admire her. The passage of time had only enhanced her natural attractiveness.

Her face became flushed under his scrutiny. "Well," she asked expectantly.

Reluctantly, he shifted his gaze. When his eyes made contact with the object, he genuinely smiled for the first time since his accident. He was at a loss for words as he rolled closer to the dining table, where Sara had placed the glass tank that held his tarantula.

"I think he missed you."

Grissom merely examined his pet, his grin never leaving his face. He was touched by her gesture. He almost felt like a child of five, who fervently believed in Santa Claus, and had just received a prized toy.

"Thanks Sara. That was a great idea." He'd always enjoyed watching his tarantula. Now he had plenty of time to indulge in this.

"Care to humor me in another potentially good idea?" she grinned.

Unexpectedly a wave of desire flooded his body; apparently the medication hadn't affected his libido. While he was relieved about that, he also chastised himself, that wasn't what she meant. Besides, he couldn't allow himself to go down that path; it would violate the truce agreement between the warring factions within him. He hoped he wasn't playing with fire, but he was intrigued.

"Maybe. You get any breakfast?"

"No, I'm eating with you. Wanna know my idea or shall I surprise you?"

Her eager smile had him captivated. Was she flirting with him? He was curious, no doubt about that, his imagination was starting to go haywire. Yet he was also concerned. Sara didn't seem well to him, she was a little too thin; her face was pale.

"Don't you need to rest honey? Have you even been home since I last saw you? And you're on again tonight? I know you don't sleep much, but you have to take care of yourself too."

She was touched by his concern. "I'm off tonight. And we can rest while we watch these." She removed some rental movies from a plastic bag that she'd placed on the table earlier. "I remembered that you and Catherine had that case like _Strangers on a Train_ a while back, so I picked up some Hitchcock movies." Then she hastily added, "That is if you think you'd like that, or want company to watch them."

He was pleased. "Of course, that's a great idea. I've seen most of them, but it's been a while and it'll be fun to watch them again. They're excellent films. I love looking for Hitchcock's cameo within the movies."

"What do you mean?"

He explained, "He's always somewhere in the film, usually in the beginning. Typically he's one of the extras walking in a street scene or sitting in a café, but sometimes he gets more creative. In one of them, his picture was in a newspaper ad. Sometimes he has odd props, in one movie he appeared with his own dogs, and I thought he did something unusual in _Psycho _too." More seriously, he added, "You didn't get _Psycho_, did you?"

She understood his reservations. In fact, when she skimmed the jacket of the movie and it touted the infamous shower murder scene, she deliberated avoided it. She shook her head.

She was half-afraid to say it. "Hey, you just remembered a lot of details, do you think that--"

He quickly interrupted, "No, it doesn't work that way. Sometimes I can remember things, and then later that day, they slip away. It's not a consistent pattern. Most times I can recall some details but I can't put the pieces all together. It's like doing a word search. Before the accident, I could just look at one and the hidden words would automatically pop out. Now, I just see the letters. It's annoying." Maddeningly infuriating and horribly frustrating were closer to the truth, but he was enjoying their banter. He didn't want to spoil the mood.

He rapidly shifted back to the previous topic. "Which movies did you get? There are so many to choose from."

Sara read the titles. "_Vertigo_, _Rear Window_, and _North by Northwest_."

He recognized them, in fact, _Rear Window_ was sending up a red flag but he had no idea why. He couldn't remember much of the plots. How ironic that he could recall Hitchcock's cameo appearances and not the actual movies. His mind felt like Swiss cheese, with lots of holes in it.

"Sounds good. Who are the stars?"

"Jimmy Stewart's in two of them, and Cary Grant. I like them so that's partly why I picked these. I've only seen a few Hitchcock movies and it's been a while for me too." She stepped closer to Grissom to tease him, "Aren't you going to answer my question, do you want to know my idea or be surprised?"

He was confused, "Weren't the movies the surprise?"

"No."

Considering how dull yesterday had been and how much he was enjoying himself so far, Grissom decided to be daring. He met her eyes.

"Okay, surprise me."

Grissom woke up as the Denali came to a halt. It was impossible for him to stay awake in a moving vehicle these days. They were in a desolate wooded area, which was surrounded only by mountains dotted with towering trees. Perhaps this was a park or wildlife preserve. He hadn't been sure what to expect, but this certainly wasn't it.

They'd eaten breakfast together at his townhouse. At first, Sara tried to convince him to go out to a restaurant, just to get out of the house. Although it was tempting to leave the oppressive confines of his townhouse, he was apprehensive. Moving around was still difficult and painful; he was concerned that he wouldn't have the energy to manage all that. He was also terribly self-conscious about his condition. He dreaded running into casual acquaintances or business associates while he was in such lousy shape.

Yet when Sara insisted upon cooking pancakes at his place, Grissom had reservations. While Sara was a wonderful woman with many talents, he didn't recall cooking as one of them. In fact, on one case several years ago, she'd insisted that her refrigerator resembled that of the victim's, holding only bottled water and leftover take-out containers. However, as with many things that day, he was pleasantly surprised.

As they ate, Sara tried to up date him on the lab, giving him sketchy outlines of the cases. Apparently, they'd brought in a temporary investigator to lessen the workload for the rest of the team. Catherine was still filling in for him, which would be good experience for her resume. For now, the lab was holding his position for him, but they didn't expect him back anytime in the near future. Sara avoided going into detail, most likely because she didn't want to upset him by reminding him that he couldn't follow what was going on. She didn't want to emphasize that he wasn't himself these days.

When he discovered Sara's idea involved leaving his home, he had serious reservations, which he discussed with her. Yet she continued to insist that it would be good for him to get some fresh air, and that she'd look out for him. Eventually she came out and asked him if he trusted her. Realizing that he did, he agreed.

He examined his watch; they'd been traveling for over an hour. They were outside the city limits and in the country. Somehow the quiet of the outdoors was more comforting than the stillness of his townhouse. The scenery was better too.

Sara brought the wheel chair around and helped him into it. The process went smoothly, for they anticipated each other's moves.

"This place was hard to find, I hope you're gonna like this." She seemed a little nervous. She began to push his wheelchair along an asphalt path. "Most preserves don't have wheelchair friendly access."

She continued to push him along the path for several minutes, as they enjoyed the view. The towering peaks of several mountains greeted them from a distance. The path inclined slightly, but Sara was confident they could tackle it. Once they reached a level open clearing rimmed with trees, she put on the brakes of Grissom's chair and then assembled a folding chair of her own which she retrieved from her backpack. Grissom examined her quizzically. She merely handed him some binoculars.

"New habits, right?"

Then she passed over a bird watcher's field guide as she sat down in her chair, beside him.

"My Grandfather thought the outdoors had inherent healing properties. He was always rambling about the restorative powers of fresh air and sunshine. He'd spend hours sitting on the beach, watching the wildlife. I used to love to keep him company. Let's see what we can find."

At first Grissom was a little stir crazy. What was the difference between sitting around at home versus sitting around outside? He was also becoming grouchy; all that movement jostled his ribs. He was tired and uncomfortable. He'd never been much of an outdoors person; his books had always been more fascinating. Sara's reference to her grandfather, though well intentioned, only served to call attention to his limitations and wound his pride.

He scanned the horizon, but he had difficulty focusing. What was the point behind this exercise?

Sara sensed his impatience. "C'mon, you're a scientist. Relax, observe."

A scientist? Ha, he couldn't even concentrate well enough these days to follow poker games on television, something he used to love to do. Poker appealed to him on many levels. He was entranced by the math, the constant minor calculations of the odds of obtaining a winning hand. He also enjoyed discerning peoples' subtle nuances and unique body languages as they attempted to bluff or conceal a good hand. He was fascinated with that which would bore an ordinary person. Now, he was even less than an ordinary person.

"Hey Sara, was it Emerson or Thoreau who said something to the effect of "the thing is not boring, it is you who are boring," he muttered.

She made a face. "Give it a chance. Grissom, you could never be boring. You got the interpretation right but the actual quote is "Tis a good reader that makes a good book". And it was Emerson."

Although his ankle was now starting to throb, the scientist within him rose to the challenge and he began to observe his surroundings. He casually examined the field guide, and then focused his binoculars towards the trees. Their magnification was helpful. He wasn't captivated by the activity but the warmth of the sun's rays felt good on his face.

After a while, he lowered his binoculars. He'd observed several different species of birds and dutifully mentioned them out to Sara, but she hadn't responded. When he looked over, he discovered that she'd fallen asleep in her chair. He wasn't disappointed; he was relieved that she was finally getting some rest. He scanned the horizon a little longer then dozed off himself.

Sara's voice woke him.

"Are you okay?" She was scared. She was leaning over him, and trying to grab one of his hands to comfort him.

His eyes flew open. Without thinking, he automatically replied, "Yeah, I'm alright." Yet, his heart was beating a mile a minute and he was breathing heavily.

"Bad dream?" she asked tentatively, fully aware that he might not answer her. "You were screaming 'No' pretty loudly." She squeezed his hand as she entwined her fingers with his, and then she tenderly caressed his cheek with the fingers of her other hand.

He was panting, trying to catch his breath, while avoiding her worried glance. He had no desire to explain to Sara that nightmares weren't a product of his near-death experience. In his line of work, it was part of the job. It was a healthy way for his subconscious to deal with the horrors he encountered in the line of duty.

So he hadn't been surprised when the four month old infant, Zack Anderson, who'd been accidentally killed by his young brother, appeared in his dreams. Grissom tried and tried but no matter what he attempted, the infant always elusively slipped out of his grasp. Nor was Grissom shocked by the guest star appearance of that poor boy Bobby Taylor, who, while under the influence of Jimson tea, mistakenly killed his friend, Eric. Usually Grissom was watching that heinous act, yelling and screaming as Bobby smothered Eric, yet he was helpless to prevent the tragedy.

Most disturbing of all had been Debbie Marlin, the girl who resembled Sara so eerily. Rather than one version, his subconscious tortured him with several variations of that theme. Sometimes he dashed out of Debbie Marlin's house, only to discover that Sara wasn't outside, waiting in safety. Other times it was his Sara whose throat was being slit, as he stood by witnessing the crime, utterly powerless to defend her. Those nightmares still haunted him.

Sara continued to tightly grip his hand, her eyes filled with concern. Unfortunately, he couldn't recall any details of his current dream, so even if he wanted to tell her about it, he couldn't.

Grissom transferred the dishes into the dishwasher as Sara placed the containers of leftovers into the refrigerator. They'd picked up some vegetable lo mein and Kung Pao chicken on the way back to his townhouse, sort of an early dinner/late lunch. Once they'd finished tidying up the kitchen and dining table, there was an awkward gap for the first time that day.

Sara paused by the dining table as Grissom wheeled into his living room.

Tentatively, she asked, "Um…do you still want company or are you tired? Would you rather be alone?"

Without hesitation, Grissom answered, "I'd love for you to stay, but I don't want to keep you from anything. It is your night off."

She smiled, "I didn't have any other plans." She paused a moment then more bravely added, "I want to be with you." Then she quickly changed the subject, "Do you want to watch one of those movies?"

"That would be great. Which shall we start with? I don't remember the plots of any of them."

Sara picked up one of the cases from the table and scanned it. Her expression became thoughtful. "Oh."

"What is it?"

"I was so concerned about not getting _Psycho_, I didn't realize that this one might not be…appropriate." She seemed embarrassed.

"Which one?" He was curious.

She handed him the case. "_Rear Window_. Jimmy Stewart plays a guy recovering from an accident. He's stuck in a wheelchair in his apartment."

"Déjà vu," Grissom mumbled.

"He's bored so he peeks into his neighbor's windows and he thinks he witnesses a murder. The rest is about him trying to prove it."

"Let's go for it. Maybe I can pick up some pointers." He joked to try to put her at ease.

Sara attempted to make herself as comfortable as she could; she'd taken off her shoes and she was fidgeting on the couch. Grissom positioned his chair so he could see the TV screen yet keep his ankle elevated and not block Sara's view.

Finally Sara surrendered and rose to grab a pillow from his bedroom. "You need a new couch," she complained as she returned. She promptly stuffed the pillow under her head, as she stretched out on the sofa.

"So I hear."

As the movie started, they both paid close attention to try to find Hitchcock's cameo.

"What does this guy look like, anyway?" Sara wondered.

"Old, fat, balding. Pretty distinctive. Hey – that's it." He grabbed the remote to freeze the frame.

"Where?"

He rewound to the proper spot. "There, you see, he's winding the clock."

"Not bad, Sherlock."

Midway through the movie, Sara insisted upon a popcorn break. Since she'd volunteered to assist Grissom with his groceries, she knew his kitchen was well stocked.

The room was becoming darker as the sun sank in the distant horizon. Grissom swiftly turned on some lights as Sara prepared the popcorn. After the accident, he dreaded being in the dark, especially when he was alone in his townhouse. In fact, he was embarrassed to admit that he usually left some lights on while he slept these days. Presumably that was a result of the interminable hours he'd spent lying in the dark on the bathroom floor. He hoped it would go away soon. Perhaps he'd ask his doctor about it.

Even with the lights on and the company of another person, his body became tenser at night, most likely because he was tired. Even minor activities took major effort. Despite his medication, his ankle and ribs were throbbing by evening. While today's outing had been enjoyable, it had taken its toll on his body.

He thanked Sara as she handed him a bowl of popcorn, then he restarted the movie. He was remarkably comfortable with Sara, he was getting used to having her around. The opposing faction within him pointed out that she was becoming bolder with her actions and emotions. She'd held his hand and caressed his face. Earlier that evening, she'd told him that she wanted to be with him. What was he doing here? It also reminded him that he was slipping; he'd inadvertently used an endearment with her.

Yet he was powerless to turn her away. Being with Sara made him feel alive. For once he was thankful for the drugs that allowed him to purposely ignore that voice within which screamed, "Be careful. You have nothing to offer her." He refused to listen to it.

TBC


	7. Questions without Answers

A/N A/N As always, thanks so much for your supportive comments, we writers thrive on those! Special thanks again to smryczko for your wonderfully insightful comments, and as always to Leslie for her advice and for still being there since the very beginning of this project and convincing me to start posting it.

Chapter 7 Questions without Answers 

Life settled into a more predictable routine for Grissom. The visiting nurse continued to make his rounds every other day to assist him with personal hygiene. Brass showed up on Monday morning to bring him to his weekly physician's appointment. He also popped in periodically during the week, bringing pizza on his night off.

Catherine called a few times. Their conversations were brief; she seemed preoccupied with work or distracted by personal business. Perhaps the situation with her daughter was worse than he was aware of. He remembered a month or two ago that Catherine mentioned that Lindsay had been picked up for hitchhiking. Although he missed Catherine's friendship and her company, he didn't feel comfortable bringing that up with her. At least he'd get to speak with her more on Friday, when she brought him to his appointment with his orthopedic doctor.

To his delight, Sara continued to visit. Sometimes she'd stop by in the morning after her evening shift, smelling of soap, with her hair damp. Other times she'd drop by later in the afternoon, after having pulled a double or extended shift. Typically, she was wiped out and had low energy, yet she usually ate dinner with him before returning to work. On days she couldn't come by, she'd call.

Several afternoons and her nights off, she stayed to watch movies with him. They were slowly working their way through Hitchcock's massive inventory. It had turned into a contest keeping track of who could find Hitchcock's cameo appearance first. Thus far, Grissom was in the lead, though they hadn't agreed upon the stakes of the contest. More often than not, they'd fall asleep during the movie, since this was Sara's normal resting time and Grissom was still recovering. They'd have to rewind the movie to finish watching it another time. Sara usually crashed on his couch while he camped out in the wheel chair.

The last time Sara was over, Grissom found himself tempted to sit beside her on the couch as they watched the films. It would be nice to be closer to her, to put his arm around her shoulder, maybe feel her head resting against his chest, to smell her perfume. His internal alarm clanged loudly, objecting to these thoughts. He ignored it. Maybe he did need a new couch; it would be difficult for the two of them to cuddle comfortably on his current one.

Despite these welcome distractions, he was having trouble adjusting to his circumstances. He wasn't used to the monotony of his days, the utter lack of tangible achievements. Getting dressed and eating didn't count as significant undertakings in his book, even though they required a major effort on his part. He sorely missed the intellectual stimulation of his job and his varied interests. It irked him that currently he wasn't even capable of handling the dreaded lab paper work. As much as he detested it, if he were able, he would've gratefully volunteered to fill out all the laborious reports at his home, just to do _something_. His limited options made him feel useless. Each day he accomplished…nothing.

His emotions, generally so stable, calm and predictable, ebbed and flowed wildly beyond his control. His indignation over his circumstances had lessened to an extent, yet he was still overpowered by feelings of despair, maybe even grief that he wasn't the man he used to be.

And the fear, that hideous anxiety that dwelled within him, silently gnawing at his gut, wasn't going away. It bothered him immensely that he felt this way. It didn't make sense. He'd spent hours at messier, more horrendous crime scenes than his bathroom and those violent images hadn't lingered in his head and plagued his dreams. Some of the victims had, but certainly not the actual crime scenes. And all evidence of his ordeal had been removed weeks ago. It was just a bathroom. What the hell was wrong with him that he was afraid of his bathroom?

He struggled to remember his ordeal, for Dr. Walker's words had intrigued him. There might be a grain of truth to them. He'd been contemplating relevant issues; he just couldn't access the details. The only other piece of the puzzle that came to his mind, were images of his collections of moths and butterflies, which were prominently displayed on the walls of his home. He was completely unable to recall any regrets about his former life, especially since he was so envious of it now.

He continued to question why was he still alive. What could he accomplish in such a sorry state? He didn't have any answers. In fact, he reviewed other events in his mind as well. Why had his door been unlocked that fateful day? Sunday night, he'd arrived home from work around 3am. It was his night off, but he'd hung around finishing up some paper work, and then he'd chatted with Jim and Doc Robbins. After he arrived at his townhouse, he'd slept until seven in the morning. Typically, under those circumstances, he would've unlocked his door to retrieve the newspaper from his doorstep. After enjoying his morning coffee while skimming the news, he'd take a shower. Thus the door would've been unlocked when he retrieved the paper.

The only problem was, he'd cancelled the paper since he was going to the conference. So why was his door unlocked?

Why was he still alive?

---------------------------

"So what do you think it all means?" Dr. Walker adjusted his glasses as he settled more comfortably into his leather chair.

Grissom sighed impatiently, slightly disgusted. He'd just spoken about the few aspects he could recall from his near death experience: the unfamiliar photos and images of his moths and butterflies, along with the Mark Twain quote about living life fully, and his inability to discover any regrets about his former life. Why was he telling this guy anything since he didn't appear to have answers?

The doctor wasn't bothered by his patient's reaction, apparently he was used to this. "Be patient. It will come back to you." Trying to reassure Grissom, whose expression was clearly skeptical, he explained, "I know that you're a man of science who is used to dealing with hard-core facts and ideas. But people and emotions don't always work that way. It's a different discipline with subtle differences in the ground rules. While people generally have certain types of experiences and emotions associated with near-death experiences, no two people have the same experience. I have some ideas of what you might've been thinking at that time but ultimately, only you know. Part of my job is to guide you, to help you discover the answers that are within you. Believe it or not, it's much more effective that way."

Grissom nodded half-heartedly.

"During these experiences, many people reach a point where they lose hope and accept that they're most likely going to die. Did you reach that point?" The doctor casually peered over his wire-frame glasses, attempting to gauge his reaction.

He didn't want to talk about it. But he had to. The weight was becoming too heavy. "Yes," Grissom begrudgingly admitted while examining his knuckles.

"So how do you feel about being alive? You've cheated death, isn't that good?"

"I don't know," Grissom muttered. He felt guilty that he couldn't bring himself to lie and parrot the words that everyone else kept repeating, that he should be grateful to be alive. It wasn't true.

"You can do better than that. How do you feel about being alive? Isn't that better than being dead?" Sensing his inner conflict, the doctor challenged him

Grissom stared at Dr. Walker, fully aware of the doctor's tactics. He was trying to provoke him. He'd seen Jim Brass use that technique effectively many times during interrogations. Yet, even though he was conscious of it; it was working, he could feel his suppressed anger starting to well up within him.

His voice became harsher, "Sometimes I think dead would've been better."

"Why?"

Grissom almost shouted, "What do you think? I'm not the person I used to be. I might never be. What the hell can I accomplish like this? What's the point?" He immediately cringed; he was mortified by that messy display of emotion.

Dr. Walker reminded him, "This is most likely a temporary state. Keep telling yourself that."

Grissom didn't appear to be listening. It seemed like no one, not even his doctors, wanted to face the ugly possibility revealed by his test results earlier that week, that he might be permanently affected by his injuries. Everyone seized the lame excuse that time would heal all wounds.

The doctor tried to redirect the conversation. "Do you believe In God?"

Grissom wasn't expecting that. "No. I was brought up to be a good Catholic. I went through the motions for years because I loved my mother but it just didn't seem logical. Religion appeals to people's emotions not their reason. It lacks relevant empirical proofs."

"So do you think what happened to you was just a random quirk of fate?" Dr. Walker jotted some notes on his legal pad.

Unfortunately, although he longed to consent, Grissom couldn't agree. These thoughts had been festering in his head for days. He couldn't talk about this with Brass or Sara; they'd think he was losing his mind. But he was astonished to discover that he needed to voice these thoughts out loud.

Feeling like an idiot, he attempted to explain, "I know this doesn't make any sense. But for some utterly ridiculous reason, I feel like I'm being punished for not believing in my mother's god. It doesn't make any sense."

Dr. Walker assured him. "It doesn't have to, feelings can be illogical and messy. I'm curious, why would a man like you leap towards a non-scientific explanation?"

Once he'd started, his words continued to flow from his mouth, almost of their own volition. "I don't know. There are too many things I can't explain. While I was in that bathroom, I know that I calculated the odds over and over again; there was no conceivable way that I was going to get out of there alive. What on earth would've caused Catherine to happen to drop by my house? She's only done that a handful of times in the years that I've known her. The odds of that occurring are astronomical. And if my door had been locked, she would've walked away. Dr. Walker, I know I didn't unlock that door, I can't explain any of it."

"There are many things in life that we can't explain. It sounds like you're looking for answers as to why this happened to you and why you were allowed to live. I don't have these answers. No one does. People who chose to believe in a god think they do, but no one really knows. You're alive. Instead of torturing yourself wondering why, just accept it and try to move on. You've been given a second chance at life. If you can remember what your past regrets were, perhaps you can make this time even better."

Grissom insisted, "It's hard to let it go. There has to be a rational explanation."

Dr. Walker tried to convince him, "But there isn't. You know that. I'm sure you've had cases that you haven't been able to solve despite your best efforts. You can't carry them around with you, you have to let them go."

While the doctor's words made sense, they were much more difficult to implement.

Dr. Walker suggested, "Perhaps one of your friends might help you with uncovering your regrets?"

Grissom nearly laughed out loud, that was highly doubtful, considering how high he'd constructed his defensive barriers.

"What about your lady friend?" He gestured to the waiting room. "Perhaps she might have some ideas?"

He felt his face becoming warm. He refused to talk about that. "No."

"Okay." He backed off, realizing he'd hit a sensitive area. "Have you been having any other problems?"

Grissom was amazed that while talking about his irrational fears hadn't changed a thing, yet somehow he felt better. It motivated him to bring up another issue.

"Okay, this is really stupid…"

"Feelings are not stupid, they are what they are," the doctor interjected.

Grissom took a breath before finishing, fully aware that what he was about to say sounded ridiculous. "I don't feel comfortable in my bathroom." That was a massive understatement. Waves of nausea still overpowered him while the visiting nurse assisted him with showering.

"Makes complete sense to me. You associate your accident with that room. That's perfectly normal. It'll take time to readjust there. You'll need to formulate more pleasant associations there, which could be challenging."

Grissom decided that he might as well go all the way. "I…um…I don't feel very comfortable being alone in my house."

"Is this abnormal for you?"

"Yes, I prefer solitude. I consider myself to be a private person," he explained.

"So you don't have many close friends?"

"Not really."

"And you're okay with that?"

Grissom shrugged.

The wheels in Dr. Walker's mind appeared to be spinning. "Hmm…maybe you associate your entire apartment with your accident. Or it could be-"

Suddenly the office door opened and Sara rushed in. Apologetically, she hurried over to Grissom. "I'm sorry, I have to go. They need the whole team."

"Okay. Go ahead. I'll figure something out," Grissom answered.

Sara stared at him as if he were crazy. In full protective mode she insisted, "I'm not leaving you here, I'm taking you home now. I'll have to be a few minutes late." She turned to the doctor, finally acknowledging his presence, "I'm sorry for intruding. I can't stay. And I'm not leaving him here alone."

Dr. Walker merely responded, "We can continue this next time."

"Sara, I don't want you late for work because of me." Grissom objected, but she promptly ignored him as she grasped the handles of his chair and proceeded to push him out of the office.

-------------------------------------------------------

"So how do you like being the boss?" Grissom was trying to distract himself by attempting light conversation. He was practically gritting his teeth as every bump the SUV encountered jarred his aching body.

Catherine grinned wryly, "It's not all it's cracked up to be. But I'm doing a damn good job, if you ask me."

"I'm sure you are."

Catherine had grilled him about his doctors and his progress en route to his sadistic orthopedic doctor, whose bedside manner was severely lacking. Of course, Catherine had managed to weasel out of her friend that at his most recent physician's appointment, his CAT scan showed abnormalities that were possibly caused by his head injury or advanced dehydration. Only time would tell when or if complete healing would occur. The two of them managed to gloss over that, with Catherine insisting upon a positive prognosis, and Grissom more than willing to avoid the issue.

Grissom cringed as the Denali hit a particularly large rut. The egocentric surgeon had manhandled his ankle in the process of examining it, so his injuries were throbbing more than usual on the return trip. Despite his discomfort, he recognized that Catherine still wasn't acting normally. He got up the nerve to ask.

"Catherine, are you okay?"

She smiled nervously as she stopped the vehicle at a traffic light. "Yeah, just busy, that's all."

Although it wasn't in his nature to pry, he was concerned. "What about Lindsay? How's she doing?"

Her expression revealed that he'd hit a nerve. Holding back her emotions was foreign to her, yet Catherine was anxious to avoid bothering her friend. " I can't…Gil, you've been through hell. You've got enough stuff to deal with without my adding on to it. I can't bother you with my problems too." Yet, since he'd asked; her tenuous resistance began to melt. "I found marijuana in her room. She's only 13 years old! I don't know what to do. She claimed it was just a friend's but…I'm scared. I'm scared that I'm gonna lose her."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

She tried to explain, "I thought if I could bug you more about that day shift position then you'd use whatever influence you had to help me. At least I'd get better hours to keep an eye on her."

Grissom pointed out, "Catherine, I filled out that paperwork weeks ago. Stopping by my place wouldn't have solved anything."

"At least I could've vented my frustrations," she joked weakly, trying not to think about what actually occurred then.

Their conversation lulled as Catherine pulled the vehicle into his driveway.

Anxious for company, Grissom asked, "Do you want to come in for coffee?"

"Um..I better get going." Then she changed her mind. Avoiding issues wasn't her style. And Grissom's condition seemed have improved slightly. "I'd like to talk. But…not in there." She glanced towards his townhouse.

Grissom was confused.

Catherine looked him in the eyes, "I'm sorry. I know you're going through a really bad time. I can't even imagine what you're dealing with, but it's hard for me to go in there. I keep seeing it in my head over and over again."

"Let's talk here." He suggested, at a loss for words. Catherine was usually so unflappable, capable of handing everything.

She confessed, "Your house gives me the creeps."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. "Me too."

He and Catherine were equally stunned by his admission. He was afraid to ask, but maybe it was time. Maybe it would help him fill in some of the gaps. "When did you realize that something was wrong?" He didn't need to specify what he was talking about.

She took a breath, "Almost immediately. Even though there wasn't a lot at the scene, I recognized that coppery smell of blood, occupational hazard, you know." She blinked back some tears. "I panicked and started yelling for you and searching the rooms of your house. I…thought you were dead at first." Her voice caught in her throat. She had trouble saying, "Your pulse was practically nonexistent. Your pupils were unresponsive." Her tears began to spill over, sliding down her cheeks.

"I rode with you in the ambulance to the emergency room. For a brief moment, you seemed to regain consciousness, but you faded away almost immediately. The doctors didn't know if you were ever going to wake up again. It was a helluva long wait for you to come around. A helluva lotta things go through your mind during a time like that, you know. You scared the hell out of me." She sobbed, and retrieved a tissue from her purse to wipe her eyes.

"I know we do this stuff for a living, but it's not the same when it's one of your own. It was hard enough with Debbie Marlin practically being Sara's double, but this was too much. I'm just so glad you're okay." She impulsively reached over to throw her arms around him.

While he appreciated of the sentiment, his sore ribs were screaming. He winced, "Careful, the ribs. Not too tight."

Catherine gently squeezed his shoulders then retreated to the drivers' seat. "I'm sorry, with Lindsay's problems, more responsibilities at work and this stuff, I feel like I haven't been a very good friend. I'll try to be there for you more."

"You saved my life, what else could a person ask for?" Grissom spoke as if merely stating a fact. Worried about his friend, he asked, "Are you getting counseling for…your…experience?" He wasn't sure what to call it.

"Yeah, how about you?"

He nodded.

Catherine's eyes widened in surprise. "That's good, that's a good thing. I'm proud of you. I know it must be hard for you, heck, it's not fun for me, but it's part of getting better. We really miss you Gil."

He sighed; he missed his old self too.

"I hear you haven't been lacking for company." She grinned mischievously as she teased him.

He strove to ignore her, but her smile only grew broader.

"Use your head Gil, don't let it get away this time."

TBC


	8. Disturbing Thoughts

A/N For some reason, I have a lot to say this week. But most importantly, thanks again for all your feedback! It's always appreciated! And I'm enjoying your thought provoking questions, smryczko.

Spoilers: "No Humans Involved". Okay, in my story, Sophia and the team breakup don't exist, but I reserve the right to refer to any bits and pieces of season 5 that I want to have in my universe.

Thanks to geeklovefan for providing an authentic and entertaining entomology journal title. _Suspicion_ is a great movie, though I apologize if I've remembered parts of it incorrectly. I love Cary Grant and I was even named after the actress Joan Fontaine.

Finally, this chapter is **rated R** to reflect more mature content.

Chapter 8 Disturbing Thoughts 

The next few days were quiet for Grissom. Sara couldn't stop by, as she was deeply involved with a case and working fervently on it, as if it were a personal crusade. Apparently they'd discovered the emaciated body of a five -year old child in a trashcan. He'd starved to death. Sara called each day to check in and see how he was doing, but he could tell even then that she was distracted; that the case was pulling at her heart. Even after five years, Sara hadn't learned to disconnect her emotions from the job. He could hear the stress in her voice as she briefly described the case to him.

It startled him as he realized that in addition to the looming gaps in his encloypedia -like database of printed factual material, there were alarming holes in his personal memories as well. Although the details were frustratingly elusive, he recalled that Sara had always reacted strongly to cases involving the abuse of women or children. She fought their battles fiercely. At first, he thought since she was so driven by her emotions, that she sympathized too much with the victims. As time passed, though he couldn't bring back a substantive moment, he became increasingly concerned that perhaps Sara herself had been the victim of a violent crime.

While his memory of the past year was decidedly vague, his gut insisted that it had been a difficult one for Sara. Jim's urgent phone call was strangely clear in his mind, when he relayed that Sara had been picked up for driving under the influence. At that time Brass also casually informed him that he was especially apprehensive since, a few months earlier, he'd encountered Sara at a crime scene, trying disguise alcohol on her breath with cough drops.

Feeling almost sick to his stomach, Grissom had hurried over to the station to drive her home. It was a quiet ride; they didn't talk much that night. Sara's eyes remained downcast, she was burning with shame, and he…he was scared to death. It terrified him to consider how easily she could've been involved in a fatal car accident.

Part of him had wanted to sternly lecture her that night about how incredibly stupid her actions had been. Yet another part of him was so relieved that she wasn't harmed that he longed to hold her tightly and not let her go. As an unsatisfactory compromise, neither side got to speak; he wasn't entirely sure what words might've inadvertently tumbled out of his mouth.

He hoped that counseling would help Sara deal with whatever issues were slowly eating away at her. From her work and her disposition after her vacation, it seemed like it had been effective. Now he wondered if he'd been deluding himself, seeing only what he wanted to see. He hadn't gone out of his way to ask any difficult questions. He'd been afraid of getting too close.

In the past, he'd been able to dismiss these thoughts, or at least bury them so deeply that they wouldn't trouble them. Yet, after the experiences of the last few weeks, he couldn't simply ignore his concerns. He needed more, though he wasn't sure what it was.

A tangible sense of loss overcame him as he realized that he couldn't remember when he first met Sara. It had to have been at one of his forensics seminars yet he couldn't place the location. Most likely it was San Francisco, since that was Sara's home turf. But it could've been L.A., where he had worked for several years, or even Boston, at Sara's alma mater, for that matter. He longed to be able to grasp that memory. He was certain that her beauty, along with her superior intellect and zealous enthusiasm, had fully engaged his attention.

She'd changed over the years, her energy and zest waning away. Even now, slight worry lines near her eyes emphasized her weary appearance. He wished he could obliterate whatever was troubling her, if only it were that simple.

He wheeled over to his dining table to activate his laptop computer. As futile as it might be, he was going to attempt to do some research. That morning, Catherine had taken him to his regular physician for his weekly appointment. Grissom had tried to grill the doctor about the possible extent of damage to his brain, but the man was evasive. He had the mindset that they shouldn't address the possibility yet because it was too early, the damage might heal itself. There was also no medical treatment for him to prescribe, so he refused to discuss it any further. Thus, anxious and starved for facts, Grissom turned to the Internet.

His search was slow and frustrating. Between the lack of discrimination with the sources and his inability to concentrate long, he wasn't able to proceed quickly. He had to stop torturing himself about how much faster he used to be able to comprehend and organize information. Eventually, he was able to determine that the diagnostic tool, the CAT scan, stood for Computed Axial Tomography. It used computers to essentially generate, from x-rays, a three dimensional picture of his brain for his doctors to analyze. Using this technology, they would be able to visualize the soft tissue, bones, and blood vessels of his brain.

Of course, the information he uncovered about head injuries was far more vague. Apparently, even a seemingly minor injury could produce major damage. The most common impairments associated with brain damage were: difficulties with memory, mood and concentration. His stomach lurched as he processed that statement; he was well acquainted with those problems.

He'd even located a website entitled the "Brain Injury Resource Center". Unfortunately, it focused more on coping with such injuries rather than diagnosing them. The site included an abundance of information and resources. Once his eyes focused on the heading 'Loss of self', he couldn't bring himself explore any further.

Had he lost himself? Or at least, the person he used to be? He tried not to think about it, but those CAT scan results proved that damage had occurred, that something was definitely wrong. He wouldn't be able to return to work like this. If his condition didn't improve, what would he do? Something mind-numbingly menial? Merely exist on disability? And doing what? What would be the point? It was too depressing to contemplate for long; he tried again to shove it out of his mind.

Yet, it kept creeping back into his thoughts.

-

"Hey," Sara called as she opened his front door. She was carrying an armload of envelopes and magazines over to the dining table where Grissom was still seated. She dumped the mail on the table with a thud.

"What's all this?" Grissom peered up from his laptop. He thought he'd caught up with his personal mail.

"Your office mail. Need some help sorting?"

He eagerly took her up on the offer. Within minutes, Sara was tossing piles of junk mail into the trashcan while Grissom more leisurely perused items of a more personal nature. He opened and reviewed several letters, starting a pile on the table for important correspondence to be filed.

As he scanned his next letter, he frowned and shook his head.

"What's wrong?" His normally stoic features were registering displeasure.

He shook his head again, seemingly absorbed by his reading, so Sara sneaked over to peer over his shoulder. He could feel her hand resting on his shoulder and the faint warmth of her breath against his neck.

"Hey, you submitted an article to _The Rolling Stonefly_". That's a reputable journal for aquatic insects. And look," she seemed excited, "they've accepted your submission with only minor changes. Congratulations." She was smiling and squeezed his shoulder lightly. However Grissom seemed bewildered. She bent closer to him. "What's going on?" His actions confused her.

He was making a conscious effort to slow down his breathing. Sara was correct; it was an honor to have a paper accepted at this journal with only minor revisions required. While many scientists struggled with generating quality publications, they'd always come to easily to him. A question would pop into his mind; he'd investigate until he'd discovered the truth. The papers were merely a summation of his work.

Although it took time to perform experiments, record observations, and then submit articles for publication, his department encouraged it in both the areas of entomology and criminology. They enjoyed riding on the coat tails of his academic laurels and basking in the glow of his excellent scientific reputation. It didn't hurt the reputation of their department either.

His face became warm as he wondered what they would be thinking now. As he stared at the article, he had no memory of writing the paper, more or less performing any of the work. It was as if a stranger had erroneously submitted it with Grissom's name on it. Even worse, as he skimmed the article, it made no sense to him. He roughly folded the article and stuffed it back into the envelope.

Sara's proximity to him was also unnerving him, though in a different manner. He could almost smell her perfume; she was so close. He longed to touch her. Dodging her concerned glance, he said, "I'm tired. Did you bring any movies?"

"Um..yeah." Sara's eyes were still fixed upon his article, which had been shoved aside. She seemed reluctant to move away from him as well, her palm was still cupping his shoulder.

Trying to change the subject, he asked, "What did you get?"

"_Suspicion_ with Cary Grant and Joan Fontaine. Do you remember that one?"

"No, how about you?"

"It's a first time for me. You want popcorn?" Sara offered. Microwave popcorn was part of their movie ritual.

"Maybe later, I'm not very hungry." He hoped that the movie and Sara's company would distract him from his problems.

He wheeled over to the living room while Sara turned on the TV and popped the video into his VCR. She kicked off her shoes and collapsed on the couch; she was exhausted. The worry lines around her eyes were more pronounced, dark patches rimmed her eyes, and her cheekbones seemed to stick out more prominently. She was rubbing her temples excessively, as if she had a headache.

"Did you eat?" he asked. Typically they'd have dinner together after she pulled a double shift. He wanted to ask when was the last time that she'd slept but he sensed she wouldn't appreciate that. Most likely, it'd been several days.

She answered as if she were apologizing. "Is later okay? I need to unwind some."

"Fine," he assured her.

He was also curious about the case, though, for a change, not the physical details. He was more concerned about how it was affecting Sara. However he was fully aware that she needed some distance from it. Like him, her worries were weighing her down; she needed to think about something else for a while.

He didn't want to violate the unspoken boundaries of their relationship. And there were certain things he just couldn't do without setting off a major disturbance within him. But he was hurting, and so was she. He ached to hold her, to feel her up close against him. What would be the harm in that?

"Sara, can I sit next to you on the couch?"

Her eyes opened wider, and she smiled shyly, "I'd like that.

It was a little awkward as they attempted to get comfortable. Grissom's right ankle was broken and it needed to be propped up on the coffee table to prevent additional swelling, but his ribs were most badly injured on his left side. After some experimentation, they determined it was easier for Sara to sit on his right side and take care to avoid his cast. Sara sat down nervously beside him and Grissom reached over to put his arm around her shoulder and effectively close the gap between them. She cautiously leaned against his chest as he stroked her hair with his fingers.

Holding her felt wonderful, comforting and reassuring. He almost hoped she would fall asleep against him; she seemed so tired. And if that were to happen, he could shamelessly stare at her too.

The two of them were initially so caught up in enjoying each other's proximity, that they missed Hitchcock's cameo completely. They'd have to figure it out another time. Grissom was still leading in their contest, but Sara was excited that she was beginning to catch up.

The movie, though engaging, did little to lessen his burdens. In fact, it may have aggravated them. In _Suspicion_, Cary Grant plays a handsome playboy who falls for a plain country girl, played by Joan Fontaine. They have a whirlwind courtship and marry immediately. Initially, it seems like the perfect marriage, a dream come true.

As time passes by, the woman begins to wonder if her charming husband is who he appears to be. He talks about work but never appears to do any. An expensive wedding gift from her father mysteriously disappears and turns up later at a local pawnshop. Her husband starts concocting grandiose schemes and suddenly one of his supposed investors turns up dead, poisoned. After she discovers a bottle of the same poison in her own home, she begins to worry that her husband only married her for her money and is now trying to poison her.

In a climatic final scene, she's with her husband, who is driving recklessly on a mountain road. She's convinced this is it, that he's going to kill her. Instead, he pulls the car over and dramatically confesses that he's a horrible businessman who's gotten himself into trouble. Can she ever forgive him?

As the final credits rolled, Grissom remembered, "Did you know that an alternative ending was filmed for this movie, where he really does try to kill her?"

Sara chuckled, "C'mon, that wouldn't work. Cary Grant can't be the bad guy."

"Apparently the test audience thought the same thing," Grissom commented.

Sara was still sitting with her head against his shoulder. During the course of the movie, his hand had drifted from her shoulder to her waist. After a while, he finally lowered his hand to secure hers. He squeezed her hand lightly as she snuggled up closer to him. Other than turning on some lights, neither of the two of them had budged.

While the movie had Grissom mulling over his suspicions about Sara's problems, evidently it had a similar impact on her. "Grissom?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to sound like a nag, and I know you don't like to talk about certain subjects, but…something's bothering you. Can you tell me about it?" She tilted her head so she was able to see his face.

Grissom took a breath. Up to this point, Sara had been so wonderful not to pry into his life. She was fully aware that he highly valued his privacy; that it was difficult for him to open up with others. She hadn't lectured him about his horrendous medication mistake, nor had she brought up any of the deeply personal issues he'd spoken about that day. While she was insistent about the psychiatrist, she didn't pump him for information about those sessions either. She seemed to be letting him set the boundaries, which he deeply appreciated.

Now it occurred to him that Sara might have terms of her own that he needed to honor. He was reluctant, yet he sensed she needed the truth and that she cared deeply about it as well. She needed to know what was happening to him. He wasn't certain what the status of their relationship was, nor could he handle that at the moment. But, as hard as it was for him, it was important to take this step.

"Sara," he took another breath. "My CAT scan shows there's inflammation in my brain."

She frowned, "What does that mean?"

"Well, if it doesn't heal on its own, my problems with remembering and concentrating won't improve."

"Oh." Sara bit her lip. "What do your doctors say about it?"

"Not much. Apparently these types of injuries are a real black box. They just don't know much about them. And there's not much that can be done treatment wise. They just keep telling me that it's early in the scheme of things, it's too early to be overly concerned."

She reached across his chest to gently embrace him. "Are you okay?" she asked softly.

He was surprised, the more he talked, the easier his words flowed. "I don't know. I don't know how to live my life like this. Before my life was like a symphony. I could read the music, I could recognize the individual instruments and when they played together, it was magical. Now, I can barely read the music, I can hear a few instruments, some I can't recognize at all, and when it comes together in my head, it's just a lot of noise. It doesn't make any sense."

"I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?" she offered.

"No honey, you're already doing it. " He practically whispered as he put both of his arms around her to draw her closer, though not too close or his ribs would ache in protest. He stroked her back gently as he held her. "Are you okay Sara?"

"Yeah, I'm just tired," her voice lacked conviction.

"Did you close the case?"

She seemed hesitant to talk about it. "Yeah."

"What happened?" He began to caress her cheek with his fingertips.

She didn't want to talk about it. "It's..dumb."

"Sara," he warned.

"The boy's mom left her three kids with her sister – a working girl. The money the mom sent for the boys for food was spent on other things – a new TV, stuff like that. Brass and I found the other two boys locked in a storage facility, practically in the same condition." Tears started to slide down her cheeks.

"That's pretty scary. Are the other boys going to be okay?"

She nodded, trying to fight her tears.

He wasn't sure how to handle this. He'd never let himself get so close to another person. Yet, he sensed that trying to suppress all that emotion was futile. "It's okay. Let it out. Don't fight it anymore," he crooned.

She surrendered and began to sob. He held her as she cried. "I don't get it, I don't understand why people can treat their children like garbage."

"I know," he murmured as she cried.

As her sobs began to subside, she said, "You must think I'm a complete idiot for getting so involved in this case."

That took him off guard. "Why would I think less of you for caring?"

She explained, "You never have that problem. It always seemed like you were strong and I was weak."

He had to think about that, for his interpretation had changed over the past weeks. "I wouldn't say that. You have a big heart Sara. You feel things intensely. That scares me. With the highs, come lows. I tend to be more level, which can be dull, but more predictable." And safer, he mentally noted. At least, the old Grissom was like that, he wasn't so sure about this new man.

"During the investigation, I interviewed some kids at a foster home. They weren't treated the greatest, but the kids assured me that the lady was one of the better foster moms."

He was curious as to the significance of this reference yet he respected Sara and let her set the pace. He did what he did best, he waited.

After a moment, she confessed, "I've never told anybody this before, but I had some problems with my family. I was in foster care for a while."

His eyebrow arched as he continued to massage her back.

She mumbled into his chest, with hoarse tones. "It was rough. It sometimes made me feel like damaged goods. Like I wasn't good enough to be loved and treated nicely."

He waited for more but it didn't come. He found himself in the strange position of yearning to know what had happened to her, yet he was frightened by that information as well. "What happened with your family?"

She considered it, and then glanced up and replied, "Sorry, I can't talk about that right now." She quickly added, "Please don't be mad at me." She was afraid of offending him.

"Of course not. Whenever you're ready," he rapidly replied.

They sat with their arms around each other for a while. The videotape had played all the way through and automatically started to rewind, so the Discovery Channel came on. Grissom and Sara weren't overly interested in selecting another channel, or paying attention to the current one. It was background noise.

Being so close to her, he was tempted to ask her about something else. He wasn't sure he could handle the answer, but he needed to know. "Honey, what happened at the hospital?"

"I…not now, please." Then she burrowed her face deeper into his chest.

-

He was kissing Sara. He couldn't remember exactly how he'd gotten here, presumably they'd fallen asleep together, still he honestly didn't care. He was lying beside her in his bed, kissing her, feeling her soft lips against his. The contact sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through him. He roughly pulled her closer to him, needing to feel as much of her as humanly possibly. He continued to kiss her, parting her lips to explore her mouth with his tongue, as his hands roamed about her body. He discovered the edge of her shirt and boldly slipped his hands beneath it to caress the incredibly smooth flesh of her abdomen.

Sara wasn't objecting to any of his actions. In fact, her enthusiastic response was exciting him even more. It was going too fast, he was practically fully aroused; he was losing control of himself. Sara was driving him wild, just the smell of her made him hard with desire. He yearned for her and he ached to be inside of her. Fortunately, she seemed as fixated on the fast pace as he did, meeting his kisses with equal fervor, if not more.

Their hips ground against each other as their hands explored and caressed each other's bodies. He found himself wishing he could easily remove his pajamas and suddenly they were convinenantly gone. As Sara moaned and her body writhed, it only served to increase his ardor. He needed to be in her, now.

"Sara," he asked hoarsely, briefly regretting the quickness of their coupling for he wanted to prolong their passion. But he just couldn't hold back any longer.

"Yes," she begged as she pulled him closer and began to shower kisses on him.

He rolled on top of her to slide himself between her legs. The dampness of his reception revealed that she was more than ready for him. Sheathed within her, he began thrusting as her body arched to meet his in rhythm. Her screams of pleasure caused him to increase his pace until he reached his climax. "Oh God," he moaned. "I love you Sara," he gasped as he collapsed against her. When he tried to kiss her again, she wasn't there. His eyes flew open.

What the hell?

He was in his bed, alone, wearing his pajamas. His heart was thudding a mile a minute and his body was drenched with sweat. He was breathing so hard that his chest was aching.

A dream? But what a dream, it had seemed so incredibly real.

He had fantasized about Sara before, if he was being honest, dozens of times. In fact, he purposely had to substitute an anonymous sex symbol into his fantasies because they were starting to interfere with his working relationship with Sara. Of course, he'd had sexual dreams about her before, but none so vivid and powerful as this. He'd actually had an orgasm rather than waking up incredibly frustrated and annoyed.

He started to shake when he realized what he'd proclaimed to her. The opposing faction within him, that had been so meek for the past few weeks, was loudly voicing its concerns. It was terrified.

-


	9. Moment of Truth

A/N In accordance with the guidelines set up by fanfic, I've revised this chapter..

Thanks again for all your wonderful supportive comments! I find myself wanting to list your names, but there are too many. Thanks so much! You're all greatly appreciated.

Chapter 9 Moment of Truth 

"So you're still uncomfortable being alone in your apartment?"

Dr. Walker was momentarily standing by the large window in his office. His work attire never varied much: like his office design, he preferred sleek modern styles with clean lines and monochromatic color schemes. Unfortunately, this conflicted somewhat with his stocky build. Today, he wore a white turtleneck with snug fitting black slacks along with a dark gray blazer.

Grissom nodded. Normally he studied people as he spoke with them, gauging their reactions and expressions, it was an occupational hazard. For some reason, he had no interest in scrutinizing his psychiatrist. Maybe it was because he was acutely aware that he was the laboratory specimen being subjected to examination. Now he knew what his beloved insects felt like within their glass cages.

Rather than engaging in eye contact with the doctor, instead he tended to scan the room. The modern art pieces, the knickknacks and paintings, which were displayed about the office, didn't appeal to him; they failed to hold his interest beyond a moment or two. He was more of a Renaissance man who preferred classical works. And the journals and diplomas were too far away to readily discern more than the titles. Oddly enough, his gaze tended to settle upon the photos on the desk, which perplexed him.

"Last time we spoke, I thought it might be due to the fact that you associate your apartment with your traumatic experience. However, from our previous conversation, I'm starting to think it might be something else."

Grissom was listening half-heartedly; he had no clue where the doctor was leading. Although he was able think a little more clearly since, a few days ago, his physician had finally cut back on his pain medication, it only allowed him to dwell more on other pressing issues.

"Let's see," Dr. Walker flipped through his legal pad as he sank into his chair. "When you've tried to recall your near death experience, you remembered pictures of people you didn't know. And you're always looking at the ones on my desk too." That captured Grissom's full attention. "What do you think that means?"

"I don't know. It makes no sense. I have no connection to any of these people." He was still completely in the dark about whatever he'd experienced in those desperate moments. He was being to doubt that he'd ever uncover it.

Dr. Walker became more animated. "That's an intriguing choice of words. Whom are you connected to?"

"What do you mean?" Grissom was confused.

"Whom do you interact with? You said you didn't have many friends. Who are your friends?" Dr. Walker prompted him.

He had to think about that. "The people I work with, I guess."

"What about your girlfriend?"

"She's not my girlfriend," he snapped. He was still feeling overly sensitive about his vivid sexual dream, which had served to heighten his inner turmoil over Sara.

Dr. Walker shook his head. "I don't know who you think you're fooling but it isn't me. Or you. I've seen the two of you together. Why do you feel like you have to deny it?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Grissom stated emphatically.

His interest was peaked but he didn't push. "Why is it so hard for you to let people into your world?"

"I don't know. It just is," he mumbled.

"You know," the doctor picked up his legal pad and practically smirked as he read. "No man is an island entire of itself, every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main…Any man's death diminishes me because I am involved in Mankind, and therefore-"

"-Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee_." _Grissom was so infuriated that he didn't realize that he'd actually remembered part of the quote. "How the hell do you know so much about me?" The quote had reminded him so much of his old self, he'd felt as if he'd been mocked and slapped in the face.

"Your girlfriend talks a lot when she's scared out of her mind. We must have spoken for over an hour the day she contacted me. I believe that was the day that-"

Grissom quickly interrupted, "Yeah, I figured that out." It was humiliating to be reminded of his grievous judgment error.

"Why don't you trust people? Why is it so hard?" Anticipating Grissom's next attack, he added, "I'm not just going by your girlfriend's assessment, I'm aware that she has her own bias. I'm a professional, I've confirmed all of my suspicions during our sessions."

Grissom silently fumed.

"Has someone ever hurt you? A former lover?" he suggested.

He shook his head.

"What's so hard about taking risks? That's what life is all about. Sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose but you have to play the game or it all becomes meaningless."

'Playing the game', something about that phase captured his attention, though he wasn't sure why. The first image it brought to mind was a baseball diamond, but that didn't fit. Though, the more he considered it, the more he became convinced that, even prior to his accident, he'd started to regard his life as sitting on the sidelines, in the dugout, while all the action and excitement was out on the baseball field. Perhaps that was one of his regrets; that he hadn't lived his live fully, that he hadn't participated as actively in his relationships with other people.

Then he recalled one of the factors that held him back.

"People leave."

He'd never acknowledge it out loud; he'd never give that man any more power over him, but his father's lack of involvement and eventual disappearance hurt him deeply, along with the countless others who initially claimed they were friends when he was younger, and then sneered at him and rejected him once they learned of his unusual interests and skills.

Dr. Walker recognized these two monosyllabic words were incredibly significant, but he didn't acknowledge it. "Some people do. Usually when things gets tough." He paused a moment. "You know if I were your girlfriend…"

This was getting ridiculous. "Sara, her name is Sara." He wished the doctor would stop bringing her up. Unfortunately, she was the proverbial elephant in the room that he longed to avoid discussing.

"Okay, if I were Sara, I think I wouldn't have even come to your hospital room. Talk about messing up her life. That would've been an ideal opportunity for her to walk out of your relationship. For most uncommitted couples, and even some who thought they would be in love forever, that would ultimately be a breaking point. These types of prolonged stressful situations tend to strain relationships rather than forge them." Trying to get a reaction out of Grissom he asked, "So is your Sara not so bright? What on earth is she sticking around for? She's even showing up late at work for you."

"Shut up," Grissom growled. Nobody talked about his Sara like that. Before the doctor could continue this line of questions, he snarled, "Enough about Sara."

"Well then, what steps do you think you can take to involve more people in your life? Or do you feel that you're ready for that?"

Involve more people in his life? The concept seemed foreign. Did he actually want that? Yet, even before his accident, his thoughts were leading that way. In fact, it seemed to him that he had already taken some steps in that direction, by allowing Catherine and Brass to drive him to his doctor's visits, and having pizza with Brass several times. And he'd let Sara get closer than he ever imagined he could. Maybe it would be okay to love her. Maybe it would be okay to bring her deeper into his life.

Dr. Walker sensed some important thoughts were rushing through his head, so he gave Grissom some time to reflect.

But what about those blasted pictures? What did they mean? Then, it hit him like a ton of bricks. Of course! It wasn't what they physically were; it was what they represented. He seized the memory as it fell upon him. All of the pictures represented loved ones, people who cared about each other. The moths and butterflies, which came to his mind, were the only ones he thought cared about him. Thank goodness he'd been proven wrong.

While he was lying on his bathroom floor, he'd been moved to tears by the thought that no one would mourn his death. That no one, other than his mother, loved him. He began to smile, strangely relieved to have recovered a 'lost' piece of himself.

"I think I'm done," his enigmatic smile remained plastered upon his face.

"Sure you are." Dr. Walker was clearly humoring him. "Same time next week? Then maybe you'll tell me what you're grinning about."

The warmth of the sun's rays felt wonderful upon his face; he was beginning to believe that Sara's grandfather was a wise man, after all. He and Sara had driven to the preserve to bird watch again. Although he hadn't been thrilled the first time, by their third trip, it had grown on him. He'd even found himself eagerly anticipating their current outing.

He enjoyed the fresh air and the solitude of the location. Observing birds didn't require intense concentration and it was oddly satisfying. It reminded him of his beloved insects and his tarantula, which he studied at his home. It made him feel like he could still act as a scientist, and it was a pleasant diversion as well.

The company was wonderful too. He casually reached over to slide his hand over Sara's. Even though his inner factions were starting to battle more fiercely, whenever he was with her, those opposing voices became muffled. Sara seemed less preoccupied, though she hadn't shared more about her family secrets. He'd have to be patient and let her choose her timing. He began to run his thumb across her palm.

"The guys are coming over your place to play poker tomorrow afternoon." Sara explained to Grissom. "It's all set, you can't back out now," she teased.

He grinned weakly, feeling a little nervous. He hoped he hadn't been impetuous making that decision. But, Brass, Catherine and Sara had each relayed several times that Nick, Warrick, and Greg were anxious to stop by and do something with him. Of course, the timing of their latest request had most likely influenced his decision to accept their offer. Nick had called Sara yesterday as she was driving him home from Dr. Walker's office. With the phrase, "no man is an island" freshly ringing in his ears, he felt motivated to make an effort. Of course, Sara had twisted his arm a little, too.

He hadn't seen Greg and Warrick since he was bedridden in the hospital, or Nick since he and Brass had driven him home. He was looking forward to their visit yet he was apprehensive as well. Did they know about his condition? Would they be repelled by it? Or worse, would they pity him? Most likely Sara had described his circumstances but how would they react once they discovered for themselves how much he had lost and what he had become.

And poker? Was he insane? With his former quick wits and keen observatory skills, he'd made enough money playing cards to finance several trips to the Body Farm. Now, he'd be lucky if he could concentrate on the actual cards in his hand. What had he gotten himself into? He sighed.

Sara squeezed his hand gently. "Don't worry, they're not expecting you to be…you know…like you were."

'Smart, capable and confident,' he thought to himself. He sighed again.

"You're..different, but you're still you. They'll recognize that. It'll be okay." Her brown eyes pleaded with him, yearning to comfort him.

He wished he could believe her; he wanted to, very badly. He didn't like being plagued by doubts. In addition to his memory and concentration, his accident had affected his ability to regulate his emotions and make decisions. Opening up to other people was such a foreign concept for him, even under the best of circumstances. Why did he think he was ready for this?

Because even the old Gil Grissom had finally recognized that he longed to feel needed and loved. He was shocked by the intensity of that memory regained from his near death experience. It was as if he'd somehow straddled a cosmic barrier and had a conversation with his old self, only to discover that they weren't as fundamentally different as they appeared to be. True, both men were terrified by the concept of emotional closeness, let alone intimacy. Yet, they each craved it.

Before his accident, his hectic life had provided more than enough distractions. His work and his numerous interests, all helped him to delude himself that he was content, that he had all that he required. He was self-sufficient; he didn't need anyone. He'd become adept at occasional casual encounters with nameless faceless women to meet his sexual needs. He was relatively happy and secure in the knowledge that no one could get close enough to hurt him.

How did that song go?

_And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries. _

He couldn't recall the rest, but it echoed his feelings. He was safe. Thus, he had no motivation to take risks in relationships that would inevitably lead to disappointment and despair. For almost fifty years he managed to ignore the gapping hole within him that silently yearned for more.

However it had started to catch up with him, even prior to his accident. He hadn't been able to identify it, he wasn't a man given to self-reflection. But gradually he became aware that it was there. Rather than deal with it, he simply denied it. He was good at that. Unfortunately, it had taken a near death experience to completely force open his eyes.

With his distractions were gone, he had nothing left other than his overwhelming awareness of his need. He was out of excuses. He wanted to be more connected to people and thus, it was time to start taking risks, even though it was even more frightening for him in his vulnerable condition.

Sara had given him some privacy, turning her attention back to the trees. He glanced at her profile, once again feeling an ache within him that he couldn't recall their first meeting. Opening up to share more of his life with his colleagues was risky. The thought of opening his heart to Sara was terrifying. Why had he held back in the past? What were his reasons?

He was scared. Well, of course he was scared, but of what? He wasn't any good at this self-analysis type of stuff. When Sara had started getting closer to him, violating his perimeter, he was thrilled yet cold fear cut through his gut. When she'd asked him out, he was paralyzed. He didn't know why he felt as he did, his gut just screamed NO. It was as if he were a deer caught in a set of headlights. He froze, he couldn't do it.

Most likely his encounter with Dr. Lurie had helped him to understand his fears better. As he spoke with the man and mentally visualized his affair with Debbie Marlin, he could see himself in that man's place. At first, it would be heavenly, being caught up in the passion and the thrill of being head over heels in love with her. But then when reality hit, he realized he was a flavor of the month and that she was ready to move on. That type of rejection would destroy Grissom. In fact, it did destroy Dr. Lurie; it led him to committee two heinous murders. Even if there weren't sufficient evidence to convict him, he'd have to live with the knowledge of his horrendous acts for the rest of his life.

However, as he currently reviewed his conclusions, he'd neglected a critical variable. Debbie Marlin wasn't Sara Sidle. Although their physical resemblance was striking, their styles were night and day. According to friends and neighbors, Debbie Marlin had dozens of doctors parading through her house. Over the last five years, he was only aware of one man, other than himself, in Sara's life. And he'd hurt her badly. Catherine had made sure to relay that information to him, years ago.

And their relationship wasn't a fly-by-night type of thing. They'd kept in contact over the years, even when they'd lived in different states. She'd dropped her life in San Francisco and driven to Vegas at his request. She'd stood by him during this stressful ordeal. He didn't even want to imagine about how awful this ordeal would've been without her.

And who was he kidding? It was too late not to get hurt; he was already in love with her. He was already vulnerable. Why not take the plunge and go the distance? Why not find out what her lips tasted like, how smooth the skin on her back felt, how she moaned when she was aroused, if she hogged the covers at night, or if she even wore pajamas at all?

Why not?

He grasped her arm, and she turned to look at him. Their eyes held one another. It was only an instant but it seemed like an eternity. Grissom licked his lips in eager anticipation and bent towards her. Sara smiled; her eyes were sparkling as she bent closer to him to bridge the distance between them.

Then, almost imperceptibly, something changed. Grissom stopped edging closer, his expression became stormy. An involuntary cry of despair came out of Sara as she leaped out of her chair and ran off.

He roughly slammed his hand into the arm of his wheelchair, winching in pain. What in the hell was wrong with him? He couldn't do it.

TBC

A/N No, I'm not trying to be mean, or play with your minds, even though Leslie called me some colorful names after reading this : ) There are valid reasons, which will all be addressed in Ch 10. If I can catch up with the rest of my writing, I'll try to post it early.


	10. Acts of Faith

**A/N** I couldn't resist, what a great day to resolve last week's cliffhanger. Happy Valentine's Day! I'm behind with my writing, something about last week's CSI truly "Unbearable" episode distracted me and I may have to write more to rectify that situation I do hope to post Chap 11 of this story next week. I'll do my best, although it's coming along slowly.

Thanks for all your wonderful reviews! They mean a lot to me. And smryczko, you always keep me on my toes. Thanks!

**Chapter 10** Acts of Faith

No matter what he did, he was miserable. And for once, it had nothing to do with his physical aches and pains, or diminished mental alertness, although those were still forces to be reckoned with. While similar to the days before in that he had trouble engaging his mind, today was infinitely worse. If he'd thought he'd been suffering before, he was gravely in error, for now he was most definitely in a hell of his own making.

Earlier that day, after she sensed that he couldn't kiss her, Sara had fled, leaving him alone in the woods for almost an hour. He was frozen to the spot; stunned by actions that he himself didn't understand. The voice within him screaming, "NO", had overwhelmed him, knocking him senseless. He felt powerless within its grasp.

When Sara finally returned, her cheeks were tear stained and her eyes red and puffy. He was desperate to say something or grasp her hand, certain he was losing her, but she cut him off with a stormy stare. She didn't want to talk; she simply drove him home in stony silence. Rather than remaining at his place for dinner and a movie, as was their custom on her nights off, she faintly mumbled that she couldn't stay. Refusing to maintain eye contact, she didn't even enter his townhouse; she simply held the front door open for him as he pushed his chair inside.

Even then, with his heart aching, he was vocally paralyzed and he couldn't say a word. It was as if he were struck dumb. He wanted to reach for her, to try to explain himself, no matter how foolish he sounded, but he didn't have any words. He didn't know what to do.

And then she was gone.

His townhouse had never seemed emptier, like a barren shell. Almost every room he entered reminded him of her. As he forced himself to heat up some soup for dinner, the image of Sara making pancakes greeted him. While eating at the dining room table, he kept glancing up, half expecting to see her face. After dinner, he couldn't bring himself to watch TV while sitting on the couch where he'd held her only a few nights ago. Tears almost came to his eyes as he stumbled across the plastic bag with tonight's movie, _Shadow of Doubt_. Even his bedroom was a painful reminder, though mostly due to his dreams.

The only place, which didn't scream her name, caused him to scream internally for different reasons. He wasn't about to retreat to his bathroom for any extended period of time.

If time had dragged before, this night was lasting an eternity. No matter what he did, he couldn't settle down. He was practically trembling from exhaustion, yet he couldn't sleep.

What was he going to do?

He tried his own form of pacing, hobbling pathetically with his crutches. He almost welcomed the pain, he felt as if he deserved it. Yet he couldn't maintain that activity for long, he didn't have the strength.

He lay down on his bed with the intention of closing his eyes for a while, to attempt to rest. He hadn't bothered to put on his pajamas; he doubted he would fall asleep. As he stuffed the extra pillow behind his head, Sara's perfume assaulted him. She usually used that pillow while they watched movies together. He sighed heavily.

Was it too late? Had he already lost her? He couldn't bear the thought.

Surprisingly, even though he couldn't comprehend his vehement objections, he wasn't willing to just let her slip away, as he might've done in the past. For he was far past the safety cut off for this relationship, he was already suffering. Since he was utterly miserable and he literally had nothing else left to lose, he did something he'd never had the guts to do before.

He called her.

As he waited nervously after pressing the numbers, the phone continued to ring. She wasn't answering it, so he hung up.

A little later he tried again, yet this time he left an impromptu message. "Sara, please, I need to talk to you. Please…" He hated himself, he was practically pleading with her. He sounded like a desperate man. He had no idea what he would say if she actually picked up the receiver or called him back. But he had to try or he couldn't live with himself.

His thoughts stumbled around and around like a drunken man weaving about in circles, as he strove to determine what was holding him back. He was completely bewildered; he didn't have a clue. For he knew with absolute clarity that he loved Sara and that he wanted her in his life. He also firmly suspected that she loved him too. After all they'd been through together, shouldn't that be enough? What was he missing?

But, he couldn't focus, he couldn't hone in on the problem.

Since he wasn't able to rest, he attempted to divert himself watching a program on his smaller bedroom television set. His mind continued to hum as thoughts flitted about his head.

How could he survive even tomorrow without Sara? She was his one ray of hope, the main person who kept him going, his proverbial anchor. The thought of facing the next day without her was unthinkable.

Ironically enough, his turmoil over Sara had distracted him momentarily from dwelling upon his other problems, which had starting creeping back into his head. The all too familiar litany began to taunt him.

What would his future hold? It had looked pretty bleak before, without Sara, would it even be worth facing? Would he ever be himself again? And how would he face the world if he were not? Would he ever be able to work again?

After a few more hours and a few more phone call attempts, Grissom had drifted into a light doze. A loud shout caused him to stir.

"Grissom!"

Whoever it was, she was angry. And his heart sank as he immediately recognized that it wasn't Sara's voice.

"Where the hell are you?" Just as suddenly, she sounded frightened. Within seconds, Catherine barged into his bedroom. She allowed herself an instant of relief as she determined that he wasn't in any physical danger and fully clothed. Then she engaged in full battle mode.

"What did you do?" Catherine's eyes were blazing.

He was fully aware of what she was talking about. Feeling ashamed, he couldn't meet her eyes.

"What the hell did you do? She looks…like…like something in her died. What did you do Gil?" she insisted.

Pointing out the obvious as he adjusted his glasses and sat up on his bed, he mentioned, "Catherine, aren't you supposed to be at work?"

His question annoyed her. "As a matter of fact, I am. However since Sara happened to show up on her night off, for the first time in over six weeks, mind you, and she insisted upon processing the mounds of evidence from my case, I have a little time on my hands," her voice was laced with sarcasm.

Since he wasn't responding to her anger, Catherine took a breath to try to calm down. That was when she actually examined Grissom. Her friend usually wore an impassive expression, except on select occasions. And when compared with those, she'd never seen him looking so down; it was alarming.

"Are you okay?"

He shook his head.

"What happened?" she asked, more softly as she sat down beside him.

"I..don't know. I just don't know," he mumbled.

She didn't buy it. "What do you mean, you don't know? Do you love her?"

Without hesitation, he firmly responded, "Yes."

She grinned faintly; pleasantly surprised by the confidence behind his words. "So what's the problem?"

If only he were certain. He struggled with his thoughts and feelings; he didn't feel comfortable talking about this stuff. It wasn't his area of expertise. Yet, most likely Catherine would understand it better. Perhaps she could help him see more clearly and make sense of the situation. "It's more complicated than that."

"Why?"

"It just is."

"C'mon Gil, if you love someone, you get all the stuff that comes along with them -- the good and the bad, and the ugly." She grinned at her reference to the classic Clint Eastwood movie. " It's part of the deal, you know - 'in sickness and in health, 'til death do us part?"

Her words triggered a thought within him that he blurted out, without thinking. "It's not a good deal if one of you may be permanently disabled and severely limited in their options."

Catherine's eyes become wider with understanding as she astutely grasped the situation. "How old is Sara?"

"Thirty three, I think." His eyebrow arched, he didn't understand the relevance of the question.

"Isn't she old enough to make her own decisions?"

"What do you mean?"

She laughed, for what was obvious to her; Grissom was clueless about. "You're holding back because you think you're not any good for her. That she won't have a good life with you. But, if you love her, that should be her decision, not yours. Besides, it's only been a little more than a month and a half since you injured yourself. You may be over-reacting; these things take time. You may be jumping to the wrong conclusions about your future. You don't know what's going to happen. Sometimes, like it or not, you have to deal with what life gives you one day at a time."

Catherine's talents were clearly amazing for that was it. The vice grip which had been tightly clamping his insides for hours finally lessened its death hold. Relief washed over him as some of the tension within him dissipated.

"What do I do?" He looked to her for help for this was certainly her arena as well.

Stating the obvious, she replied with some sarcasm, "Don't you think you should try to talk to her?"

"I've already called her, several times. She won't answer."

Catherine's mouth momentarily hung open in disbelief. Had aliens abducted Gil Grissom and sent this man in his place? Grissom was so distracted that he missed out on this colorful display. Gathering her wits, she mentioned, "It doesn't really count unless you leave a message. Did you do that?"

Remembering the pleading tones of those messages, the ridges of his ears began to turn slightly red. "Yeah, a few."

Catherine nodded, impressed. "I hate to say this, and I don't know exactly what happened between you two, but gauging from her reaction, I think you're in major trouble. You need something good."

"Like…" he was hungry for suggestions.

She rubbed her chin. "You need something major. This is the big show here. If you blow it, it's probably over. You gotta give it your all."

"I need to talk to her," Grissom insisted.

"I know. I could drive you to the lab or her house," she suggested.

He shook his head. "I don't think she'd let me talk to her under those circumstances. I think she has to come to me."

Slightly flabbergasted, Catherine asked, "And how do you propose to do that?"

"Flowers worked before." Technically it was a plant, yet that had seemed like ages ago in much simpler times.

She was skeptical and she delicately tried to point out. "Gil, I don't think that's enough."

Grissom became more confident as he formulated a plan. "I know it's not. Can you stick around a while? I need your help with some things."

The pressure was on. He knew what he had to do, and the potential consequences involved. Only his throbbing exhausted body, along with his thudding temples, wasn't cooperating, not to mention the presence of a new distraction. While he'd insisted that Catherine remain at his place until he was finished, he was being to have his doubts about the wisdom of that decision.

Catherine hovered over him, insisting upon peering over his shoulder. She actually tried to read what he was writing until he abruptly covered it up with his forearm. She continued to butt in with unsolicited advice.

"Remember you need to be honest, Gil. Lay it all out there. I don't think you're getting any more chances," she warned.

He'd had enough. "Cath, go away. I mean go watch TV or something. I can't do this with you hanging over my shoulder. It's…personal."

She was wounded, "I thought you needed my help."

"I do, but not with this. I have to do this by myself," he explained.

She understood and strolled into the living room to sit on his couch. "If you need any advice," she called over.

"I know, give me some privacy and let me think," he warned.

It was a slow and agonizing process. Although it was a brief note, it took him over an hour to compose it. He'd never been good at expressing his feelings, especially ones that were this intense. He was tempted to ask Catherine to review it to make sure it made sense and to determine if she thought that it might be effective, but that felt far too invasive. Instead, he took a short break, rolling his chair over to speak with her.

"How's it going?" she asked as she checked the time on her watch. Grissom's home still made her nervous. At least it was a slow night and Warrick was covering for her, just in case. Yet she needed to get back to the lab soon.

"Give me a few minutes, I want to check it one more time."

"So what's the plan?" Catherine asked.

"Are there any florists open this time of night?"

"Honey, we're in Vegas, there's all night everything," she grinned.

Thank goodness he could set his plan into motion as soon as possible. "Good. I can order the flowers but I want them to be delivered with this note. Can you bring it to the florist for me?"

She eagerly agreed, "You bet. I can deliver it with the flowers myself, if you like."

"No, but can you just make sure she doesn't take off without seeing them. That she reads my note."

"Should I call you and tell you her response?" Catherine asked.

"No." Although he was anxious and her offer was very appealing, he didn't want Catherine that deeply involved in his love life. Besides, he'd know soon enough if it were successful. "Thanks Cath."

"What are friends for?" she smiled.

He returned to the dining table to review the letter one last time. It was brief yet it was heart felt.

_Sara,_

Since I'm not sure if you're ever going to visit me again, I'm going to be as honest as I can. I love you Sara. I want you in my life. The past few weeks have been hell and only being with you has made them bearable.

Before my accident, I could've thought of multiple quotes to describe my feeling for you, since I don't know how to even begin to use my own words. All I can tell you is that I'm starting to feel grateful that I survived, that I have a second chance at a life with you in it, I hope.

I don't fully understand why I behaved as I did earlier today. I know I hurt you and I'm sorry. Can we talk about it? Can we try to work things out? I miss you honey. Please come over so we can talk.

_All my Love,_

_Gil_

He folded the paper, placed it in an envelope then sealed it. Catherine removed it from his grasp and clasped his shoulder.

"Good luck."

After Catherine had left, Grissom collapsed on his bed for several hours. Despite his exhaustion, he rose early on the chance that Sara would come by directly after her shift. He wanted to be ready. He washed his face and changed into fresh clothes, while nervously tracking the time.

He had no idea if she would actually show up. This type of situation was totally novel to him. Though he knew that watching the clock wouldn't make the time go faster. After eating a light breakfast, he began to play chess on the computer, an activity he'd discovered a few days ago.

He tried not to dwell on the mediocre level he was playing at. At least he didn't have to face any sneers from his virtual opponent, and he could take all the time he wanted with his moves.

Night shift was over by now, and still no Sara. He sighed. He fought the urge to call Catherine and find out what was going on. Had Sara read his note? Perhaps she was so disgusted with him that she threw away the roses without even noticing his letter? He caught himself with his fingers perched by his cell phone. Or maybe he should try contacting Sara again? Maybe she would talk to him now? He managed to pry his phone out of his hand and place it out of reach. Patience Gil, he told himself.

Then he reminded himself that Sara tended to get absorbed in her work. Catherine had mentioned that she'd volunteered to process a large amount of evidence. Perhaps she was so involved in her task, she hadn't taken a break yet. That sounded like his Sara. If that were the case, hopefully Catherine would intervene to expedite things. He didn't think he could handle this torment much longer.

He wasn't able to concentrate much more on chess; he restlessly drifted to the living room and searched for something to watch on television. Thoughts of Sara preoccupied his mind. After settling on the Discovery Channel by default, he managed to drift off to sleep. Although he was keyed up and nervous, his mending body demanded rest.

A soft voice woke him up. "Hi."

Sara had let herself in. Her face seemed quite pale to him and dark circles rimmed her eyes. Yet, her hair was damp, indicating that she'd stopped by her apartment to shower before coming over, and she'd changed her clothes. She was wearing snug fitting blue jeans with a chocolate brown turtleneck sweater. Surely those were encouraging signs.

"Hi." His heart was thudding wildly within his chest.

She walked over and sat on the couch across from him.

"I…got your flowers. And your note." Her voice was somewhat hoarse, as if she'd been crying recently. Had his gesture had influenced her? "So, I'm here. What do you have to say?"

"I… I…" Damn it, he started to panic, he was claming up again.

Sara was hesitant with her words as well. She couldn't quite look him in the eyes. "Did you mean it? What you said in this?" She held his letter in her hand.

He was frightened he was going to mess things up again, yet he sensed she needed to hear him say the words. "Yes, I love you. I want you to be in my life."

The confidence in his tone seemed to reassure her a little. "I can't go back to the way we were. I need more."

He wheeled his chair closer so he could comfortably reach over and grasp her hands. "I do too. I don't want to go back either."

Her eyes grew wider as his note slipped from her fingers to the floor and she returned the subtle pressure he was exerting on her hands.

He was encouraged, yet Sara was waiting for a well-deserved explanation. But how could he say it without sounding like an idiot? Catherine had made it seem so obvious. "Sara, I can't make any promises. I have no idea what the future holds. I could be like this for the rest of my life. It…doesn't seem fair to you."

This didn't seem to bother Sara. "I know. Things could get pretty rough. But, even though you've changed as a result of the accident, you're still you. And I love you. I have for a long time."

Those words sent adrenaline surging through his body. He wanted to be sure that she knew what she might be getting into. "Honey, I might not be able to work again. I can't be that type of a burden to you."

She edged closer to him so she could move one of her hands to stroke his cheek. More softly she replied, "Shh…like you said, we don't know what's going to happen. That's life. Everybody's got issues. Let's take it one day at a time. You don't get to pick who you fall in love with."

His cobalt blue eyes met her brown ones, which were beginning to exhibit their shine again. This time nothing was going to hold him back as Sara tentatively approached him to sit on his lap. Their eyes remained fixed upon one another, for the past twenty-four hours had been hell for both of them. As she settled herself comfortably on his lap, he used his fingers to trace her jaw line then to tilt her chin towards him. He moistened his lips, impatient to finally kiss her.

A loud banging startled them, followed by the front door opening, causing a frightened Sara to jump out of his lap. Greg, Warrick, and Nick sauntered in, laden with grocery bags.

"Hey," the guys enthusiastically greeted them, completely unaware of their horrible timing.

Grissom was puzzled, to say to least. "Hey guys, what's going on?"

Sara remembered, "Poker."

Those plans felt as if they were made in another lifetime. But Grissom rolled towards his company, attempting to be a good host. He was pleased to see his coworkers, although not thrilled by their interruption.

Warrick grinned as he clasped Grissom's hand. "Man, you're looking a helluva lot better than the last time we saw you. How've you been?"

"Surviving, what's going on with you guys?" Grissom snuck a glance towards Sara.

"The lab just isn't the same without you Grissom. It'll be great when you return." Nick enthusiastically pumped his supervisor's free hand, pleased to see the improvement in him.

Greg pulled some beer out of a grocery sack he placed on the dining room table. "We come bearing refreshments. Are you joining us Sara?" he asked skeptically.

Sara smiled awkwardly, "Well…I guess I better-."

Grissom objected. There was no way he was going to let her out of his sight so soon after he'd finally gotten her back. "No, she's staying," he stated firmly.

The guys exchanged bemused glances.

Then Grissom had another idea. "While you're setting up for the game, will you excuse us for a moment?"

TBC


	11. Sparks

**A/N** Between real life issues and my own deficiencies in poker, writing this chapter has been a tremendous challenge, taking me three times longer than any other chapter! This chapter would never have come together without the greatly appreciated advice and help of smryczko, Triple Pirouette, and Leslie. Thanks!

Thanks for all of your comments and reviews! I'm so glad you're enjoying this story, which is almost finished. One more chapter… then I'm thinking…sequel?

Chapter 11 Sparks 

Slightly red faced, Sara followed Grissom into his bedroom as the others unloaded snack food and set up for the game.

"Close the door," he asked, so she complied.

At that point, he didn't care that three of his coworkers were in his dining room, most likely widely speculating about what the two of them were doing together in his bedroom. He didn't care that he couldn't make any eloquent moves due to his physical limitations. Because he'd had enough, he wasn't about to wait any longer.

"Come here."

She stepped towards him, uncertain of his intentions.

With some tenderness in his voice, he explained, "You didn't think I was going to be able to hold back much longer, did you?"

Sara grinned with understanding and eagerly climbed on to his lap. Their lips found one another almost immediately. At first their kisses were tender and tentative, their lips pressing gently against one another. Sara moved cautiously, afraid of inadvertently jostling his mending ribs.

Although his original intention had been to stay for just a minute or two to steal a few kisses, they lingered. He'd longed to touch her for such a long time that he couldn't tear himself away from her that easily. Their kisses soon became deeper, more passionate, more urgent as they hungrily explored one another. Sara raked her fingers through his salt and pepper locks, while he slipped his palms beneath her turtle neck to caress her warm bare flesh.

They finally pulled apart, panting for breath with their hearts racing.

"We better.." Sara breathlessly tried to say.

"I know. Soon, " he mumbled as he cut her off with another deep kiss. He was too busy savoring the moment, enjoying the feel of her body and the sensation of her tongue in his mouth.

Eventually the bedroom door opened, but Grissom and Sara weren't about to tolerate any more interruptions so they didn't stir this time.

Greg stood in the doorway with his mouth hanging open, stunned, and then he discretely closed the door. They could hear him yelling to Warrick and Nick who were already snickering loudly at his expense. "That isn't the bathroom. This is CSI hazing!"

Sara and Grissom started to laugh uncontrollably. Neither of the two of them had had a good hearty laugh in ages. Even before the accident, their lives had seemed very serious and, frankly, bleak. This was a welcome blast of fresh air. Grissom couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard. His chest was beginning to ache, but he couldn't stop. Sara was even getting tears in her eyes.

"Guess our secret is out," he grinned towards her, trying to catch his breath.

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand as she calmed down. "Oh, I think it was out before now."

He gave her a puzzled glance.

Somewhat embarrassed, she realized, "Oh, of course, you wouldn't remember the hospital."

He'd heard that line too many times before. "What happened at the hospital?" he asked impatiently.

"Let's not spoil the mood. Later, okay?" She leaned to gently kiss him one more time. "I promise." Her fingertips traced his bearded jaw line.

"Okay."

They quickly examined each other to fix stray hairs and rearrange rumpled clothing. The fact that their coworkers were aware of what they'd been doing was embarrassing, but they felt as if they could handle it. Grissom felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from him, he felt light and…happy. Sara was positively radiant, looking even more beautiful to him than he'd ever seen her.

Then it came to him. He could remember her face, the first time he saw her. It was at a forensics short course that he'd taught at Harvard. Although there were over one hundred people in the audience, Sara Sidle stood out from the crowd. She must've been a senior, to have been eligible to take the course. Unlike the typical undergraduate, she took care of her appearance. While not overly fancy or fashionable, that day she wore relatively new blue jeans with a modest rose print top. She always sat near the front of the lecture hall and inevitably she was prepared. Her enthusiasm, as she peppered him with probing questions, immediately caught his attention. It was irresistible and so was she.

She'd patiently waited for him after his lecture was completed, hanging back as droves of other students slowly filtered past the podium. He was flattered that she wanted to ask him even more in depth questions so he promptly invited her to join her for coffee. That was the beginning of their association.

He smiled, thrilled to have regained this memory.

"What?" asked Sara, noticing the change in his expression.

Echoing her words, he told her. "I'll tell you later." He kissed her gently, "Promise."

They opened the door. Grissom pushed his wheelchair over to the dining table while Sara snuck over to the living room to retrieve his letter from the floor. Everyone in the room wore awkward grins but no one was certain what to say. So Nick chose to respect their privacy and attempted to act as if nothing had happened.

"Hey Grissom, are you able to use crutches yet?"

"A little, the ribs have been holding me back. They're finally starting to heal." After six weeks, it was about time. The men took their seats around the table as Sara darted out to her car to retrieve something.

"So when does the cast come off?" Warrick asked.

"Next week, hopefully." Grissom shuddered just thinking about his upcoming appointment with the orthopedic surgeon; he was a grim man. At least he had a better reputation for his work than his bedside manner. "And then I start getting into physical therapy."

Forgetting himself, Greg enthusiastically insisted, "Then you'll be back soon, you can hobble around on crutches at the lab. I can finally do my proficiency tests. Catherine keeps putting me off, says she's got too much work."

Warrick and Nick exchanged cautious glances, somehow conscious that this might not be the case.

Grissom merely answered with a noncommittal, "We'll see." They'd discover soon enough what his true 'limitations' were.

Completely unaware of his blunder, Greg shuffled the cards with flair. "Hope you're feeling lucky today, 'cause I know I am."

The other men rolled their eyes and chuckled.

"You don't know who you're dealing with," Nick warned, in a friendly fashion.

As they discussed the stakes and the house rules, Sara returned with a vase filled with red roses. Ignoring the men's prying eyes, she carefully placed it on the coffee table in the living room and then joined them.

"Where do I get to sit?" she insinuated. There was an available chair on the side of the long table, completely opposite Grissom, but she didn't want that one. Warrick caught on immediately, and rose to offer his seat, which was next to Grissom. "Thanks," she beamed as she slid into the chair.

And with that, the game started.

"How about a little Five Card Draw? Nothing wild." Everyone threw their ante into the pot, and then Greg began to deal the cards.

As Grissom had feared, it was difficult for him to keep track of what was going on. He could remember most of the names and the rankings of the hands, yet he used to conceptualize the game differently. Like Scrabble, his strategy needed to be altered. Currently, it was just about how to stay in the game as opposed to going in for the kill, which wasn't as entertaining. But, surprisingly, it didn't bother him as much as he'd anticipated. He was actually enjoying himself. It was pleasant to listen to the men banter and tease one another; he'd missed working with them.

Their anecdotes from their latest cases made him laugh. Apparently, Nick, while perched on the lid of a dumpster which was overflowing with rotting trash, had fallen in head first while trying to secure some crucial evidence. Warrick even brought along the photos he'd snapped to 'document' the scene.

Not to be beaten, Nick shared about the hot suspect, a tall trim brunette, who took a shine to Warrick and took every opportunity to literally press herself against him and attempt to seduce him. The poor man fidgeted uncomfortably as Greg and Nick reveled in relaying the lurid details. In the end, although she was undeniably attractive, the evidence conclusively proved what they'd suspected all along, that she was bad news. She'd precisely orchestrated the murder of her husband and her lover.

Sara played an occasional hand, however after the events of the last twenty-four hours; she was physically and emotionally worn out. Once in a while she'd discretely sneak her hand under the table to squeeze Grissom's hand or leg. Once she even teased him by moving her hand to caress the upper portion of his thigh, until he sharply glared at her.

Although it was distracting, Grissom was pleased by her discrete displays of affection. He felt like he was fourteen years old and had kissed his first girl. A man almost fifty years old shouldn't be feeling like this. Falling in love was a myth, wasn't it? He'd been infatuated with some women in the past yet it certainly didn't compare to what he was feeling now. He prayed that he didn't have an asinine grin on his face.

It was the final betting round during a game of _Baseball_. Greg thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "I'll raise you ten."

Warrick mumbled, "You don't have anything. I'll match that."

Even Grissom realized that, while Greg was a skilled lab technician with burgeoning talent as a field agent, his body language betrayed him so he'd never be a decent poker player. He was bluffing. Warrick, on the other hand, was inscrutable. He was smooth with his expression remaining neutral during the entire course of the game.

It was Grissom's turn so he examined his hand. He thought it was decent, a three of a kind, comprised of three sixes. Yet, he had no idea what was going on with Warrick, so he chose to play it safe and fold.

He could sense Warrick's growing confusion and disappointment, he'd expected to be challenged by the boss, not easily take his money. Most likely he was the only person at the table who was aware of his former expertise. But that couldn't be helped. At least no one had yet broached work topics that he couldn't follow. He was thankful that they'd avoided that situation thus far.

Nick chose to stay in the game, calling the bet.

When they revealed their cards, it was no surprise that Greg's hand was worse than Grissom's had been. Nick eagerly displayed a full house with a flourish, and grinned as he reached towards the pot. But Warrick interrupted, holding up his hand, which was a higher-ranking full house.

"Oh man, " Nick threw down his cards in disgust.

After Warrick collected his winnings, Nick handed the deck over to Grissom.

"Looks like you're buying the pizza." Grissom commented as he declared, "How about _Jacks_?" They threw in their ante and then Grissom dealt the cards.

As they examined their hands, Greg complained, "At the rate Warrick's going, this is gonna be a short afternoon. We should've invited Rob."

"Who's Rob?" Grissom asked, as he studied his cards.

"I would've been happy to take his money," Warrick grinned. "He's the new temp guy who's helping out. He's a bit naïve, so he'd be the perfect pigeon. But he's pretty sharp when it comes to lab smarts. I hope they can find a place for him on staff once things get back to normal."

Greg teased Sara, "What do you think? Being he spends so much time following you around like a puppy dog?"

That caught Grissom's attention. His jealousy gene was alive and fully functional. He abruptly turned to glance at Sara.

"He's got potential to be a good CSI," was all she would say, while lightly squeezing Grissom's thigh under the table.

Needless to say, after a few more rounds, Grissom had won a few hands by pure luck. However, overall he'd lost more money than he'd won. Warrick was still on his winning streak with Nick vying to catch up. Greg continued to drown his sorrows with beer, which wasn't necessarily bad since he became more entertaining, with his jokes becoming even funnier.

There was an awkward moment when they took a break to eat pizza. It was almost impossible to avoid, after all, they were co-workers. Nick started to talk about the details of a case; he wanted Grissom's advice on the best type of assay to perform on some especially delicate evidence. Under normal circumstances, he could've easily handled the question. But these weren't normal circumstances.

It was as he had feared. There was a strained silence. It was painfully apparent to everyone in the room that Grissom wasn't following what Nick was saying. That their mentor no longer had all the answers. He could feel their eyes all fixed upon him, filled with confusion, while his face became flushed with embarrassment.

Thankfully the moment was brief, for Sara rapidly interceded, reminding the guys that Grissom was still recovering from a serious head injury and that he needed to take it easy. Although the men weren't fully satisfied with her brief explanation, they wanted more details; they didn't pursue it. They knew their supervisor and they respected Grissom's desire for privacy. Well, at least it was out in the open, Grissom sighed.

After they'd finished their pizza, they resumed playing.

Warrick grinned as he shuffled the cards. "You ready?"

"To lose to you? I don't know," Greg sulked.

"C'mon Greg, give it your best shot," Sara encouraged.

"Okay, just a few more games, since you bought us dinner. Wanna pay for the beer too?" Greg teased Warrick.

"That's on you. Okay, how about _Baseball_?" Warrick answered.

Grissom stifled a yawn, it was early but, like Sara, he hadn't slept much over the past twenty-four hours. Yet, up to their break, he'd been having fun. And after Sara's tactful suggestion, the guys had been sticking to light conversation, thus avoiding additional tense situations.

Warrick took the first game, while Nick won the second.

Grissom tried to remember some of the techniques he used in the past with this game. It helped to be able to gage the probability of obtaining certain hands, yet the kicker was the ability to read people. Over the next few rounds, he discretely studied Warrick's expressions and body language.

Greg got lucky with a straight flush and managed to win a round. He whooped loudly with excitement. A few rounds later, Grissom, Nick and Warrick had each won some games.

Then Nick chose the next game and dealt the cardsNear the final betting round, Grissom assessed his cards. He had a decent chance, with a flush. And if anyone could pull off a bluff, he certainly could. But before he could commit himself to raising, Warrick was the deciding factor. What was in that man's hand?

At that moment, something almost imperceptible occurred. Some of the cogs in his brain began to fit together a little better; the neurons began to speak to each other more coherently. Somehow he was able to integrate his observations and suddenly Warrick's formerly unreadable expression became crystal clear to him. He didn't have good cards, Grissom felt certain, so he raised the bet.

Nick and Greg folded, so that left Warrick and Grissom in the game. Warrick calmly bet more. Grissom matched him. When they finally showed their cards, he was thrilled to discover that he'd been correct, Warrick had one pair. Grissom smiled as he swept the pot towards him.

"Nice," Warrick conceded, somewhat taken aback that his bluff didn't work.

Grissom was distressed to find some strange emotions welling up within him so he quickly excused himself, telling the others to start the next round without him. He asked Sara to hand him his crutches so he could hobble over to the bathroom, it was easier to maneuver in small spaces with them. It struck him as horribly ironic that the room of his nightmarish ordeal, which still disturbed him, was the one he was fleeing to for sanctuary. Yet, he didn't have a choice, it was the only place where he had any guarantee of privacy. He needed to be alone.

As the door shut behind him, he found himself shaking while tears practically came to his eyes. Something had happened. Maybe it was only a brief spark, a tiny ember, but he felt it. It was real. His mind had been able to process his observations, to pull the information together in a coherent fashion. He was overcome by his emotions, incredibly relieved that he might regain more of his mental acuity.

He spent the next few minutes trying to compose himself, trying to slow down his breathing. He tried to remind himself that this event might not have huge significance; it might just be a blip, an isolated incident rather than a true spark. He still had a long road to travel towards healing and a complete recovery might never be in the picture for him. Yet, it began to restore a glimmer of hope that there could be a more positive outcome for his future than he'd originally envisioned.

Minutes later he emerged from the bathroom, carefully composing his features. He was half afraid to rejoin the game, it would be tempting fate, he would feel crushed if that inspirational streak didn't kick in again. Yet, another part of him was dying to try it again. So he did.

Five rounds later, after Grissom had won all of the games, he was feeling cautiously optimistic. Yet, it was fading, the newfound clarity was starting to become dimmer.

"You've been holding out on us, Griss," Nick teased.

The men were pleased that Grissom was playing more like they'd expected. It gave them the sense that things would eventually be moving back towards normal. Sara's eyes were practically fixed upon Grissom, as she tried to process what she thought she was seeing.

At that point both Grissom and Sara were muffling yawns, so the guys decided to call it a night. Greg and Nick packed up the extra snack food, but not before Sara snagged their box of microwave popcorn.

Warrick approached Grissom and shook his hand. "Lookin' good there. I don't know if we can afford to do this again," he joked.

"We'll bring Rob," Greg insisted. "More money for the pot."

As the men gathered their coats and belongings, Grissom looked towards Sara, hoping that she understood how badly he longed for her to stay with him. He couldn't catch her gaze yet she hung back, seemingly intent on neatening up his kitchen.

"I'm glad you came over. Let's do this again." Grissom genuinely smiled as he moved towards the door with his guests. Nick, Greg and Warrick bid their farewells, and finally the two of them were alone.

Sara rushed over, ignoring the rest of the dirty dishes. "What happened?"

He'd never been a superstitious person; still he was half-afraid to say it out loud for fear that it wouldn't happen again. "Something clicked." He was trying to downplay it, to be casual about it, but his unruly emotional side wouldn't let him get away with it. His eyes betrayed him, conveying his feelings directly to her. She climbed into his lap and wrapped her arms around him, pressing his head against her chest. He fought to control the odd burst of emotions welling up within him, yet Sara sensed this.

"It's okay. Don't try to keep it in. It _is_ a big deal." They held each other tightly as Grissom's body once again trembled. Sara rubbed his back as she wrapped an arm about his shoulder

He felt ashamed that she was seeing him like this, so out of control. It was embarrassing. It also scared him because loss of emotional control was associated with his injury. How could it be possible that he was experiencing improvement in one area and not another? He desperately wanted to believe that what he experienced was real, that his mind was in fact healing. That it hadn't been a one-time experience. He clung to Sara, feeling reassured by her presence.

As his trembling subsided, she asked, "Do you think…do you feel any different?"

He started to caress her hair with his fingertips. "I don't know. It sure felt like something was coming back." He was practically whispering.

She smiled, "One day at a time, right?" She kissed his lips gently. "You're exhausted, you want to lie down?"

Sara was right, yet he was reluctant, he didn't want her to go. While earlier in the day, they'd both agreed that they wanted their relationship to move forward; he wasn't sure how to proceed. This was new territory for him. And he was so damned tired.

"Do you still have the movies?" Sara asked, while motioning towards the couch.

That was an excellent suggestion, a good way to relax, and already part of their routine. But he'd had enough of that couch. "Yeah, but I have a better idea." He hoped that he wasn't being too forward; he didn't want to offend her. He spoke before he could overanalyze himself. "You want to watch them on the smaller set in my bedroom? We could get more comfortable."

"Are you asking me to spend the night with you?" Sara teased, seductively.

"Yes," he replied, in deep tones

"I don't have any of my stuff."

"You could wear one of my T-shirts and sweat pants. I have a new tooth brush for you."

It didn't take long for her to make up her mind. "Okay," was her breathless response.

He changed into a T-shirt and sweat pants then sat on his bed and examined the movies that Sara had selected. Minutes later, she entered his bedroom, clad only in one of his faded black T-shirts, which barely covered the curve of her rear end. His eyebrows rose.

"The pants are a little too big," she explained as she blushed.

Being a normal red-blooded American male, he automatically took note that she wasn't wearing a bra. He also had to examine her closer to determine if she were wearing her panties. She was. Hell, either scenario was arousing. Maybe he wasn't as tired as he thought.

Sara took the cassette from him and inserted it into the VCR. Then she joined him on the bed. It took a few minutes to determine what positions were most comfortable for both of them. Once Sara settled by his right side, he instinctively reached to pull her closer so he could kiss her. Before their kissing could be become more heated, Sara pulled back.

He frowned.

She explained, "We don't need to rush. You need to rest; it's been a big day for both of us. I'm tired too. I want it to be special our first time."

Reluctantly, he agreed.

"But…do you…can you…" Sara was struggling with a question.

"Just say it, it's okay." He reassured her.

"Can you make love to me? There any medical reasons you can't?"

He chuckled. "Other than exhaustion, there is absolutely nothing that will hold me back."

"Good," she grinned.

Sara cautiously leaned against his chest as he slipped an arm about her shoulder. She pressed the remote to start the film.

"Do you know this one, _Shadow of Doubt_? I noticed there was a remake so I thought it'd be fun to compare the two," she asked.

Grissom had been delighted to discover that he did remember this film. "This is a good one. You spend most of the movie trying to figure out if this girl's uncle, who is a ladies man, actually steals his women's jewelry. It's done well. I even remember reading about the remake. Supposedly in the opening scene they show the uncle raiding a woman's jewelry box. So much for subtly."

"Sometimes subtly is underrated."

They cuddled as they watched the movie. It was wonderful to have her soft warm body next to his; he'd been such an idiot to have waited so long. It figures that he practically had to die before he'd been brave enough to pursue her. Thank goodness he'd gotten another chance, with life and with Sara. Hopefully he'd have another chance with his mind becoming more functional as well. He could feel her chest rising and falling as she breathed. The rhythm was soothing to him.

About fifteen minutes into the movie, Sara thought she saw Hitchcock's cameo but when she pointed it out to Grissom, he'd already fallen asleep.

TBC


	12. New Memories

**A/N** Sorry this update has taken so long. Real life has been hectic, and since it's the last chapter, I wanted to be extra careful with it. Special thanks go to Leslie and smryczko for their helpful suggestions!

As always, thanks so much for all your wonderful reviews! This has been so much fun, I hate to see it end. I need to get working on the sequel, and those ideas I have for "Breakfast with Sara".

**Please note, the rating of this chapter is R to reflect sexual content.**

**Chapter 12** New Memories

He was kissing Sara while they were lying together in his bed. Yet this time instead of the frantic, breakneck pace, they were tender, soft, leisurely kisses. She moaned softly and trembled as he captured her mouth with his. As much as the sensations thrilled him, he realized, with some disappointment, that it must be that overly vivid dream which continued to taunt him.

As his dream had previously dictated, he reached to pull Sara closer to him so he could feel her body pressed up against him. Yet something was different this time. A slight protest from his mending ribs startled him. That and the sunlight beginning to filter into the room indicated that he was awake, that this in fact, was reality. He paused, momentarily stunned.

"Are you okay?" Sara asked, wondering why he'd stopped.

It didn't take long for the events of the last twenty-four hours to flash through his mind.

"Yeah," he mumbled, blissfully returning to what he'd been doing, concentrating on kissing her while using both of his hands to shove her T-shirt up above her waist. He roughly caressed the bare flesh of her abdomen with one hand, and cupped her rear with the other. He didn't know who'd initiated things, and frankly, he didn't care. Some parts of him had revived much faster than others.

Their kisses became deeper and more passionate, as their tongues intertwined and their hands reached to touch and stroke one another, to get as close as humanly possible. Sara's inquisitive fingers found their way beneath his T-shirt. He was rapidly becoming more excited, his breath was coming faster and his heart thudded rapidly. Her scent, her texture, her taste were all intoxicating him. Like a raving alcoholic, he craved more.

He moved his hands higher up her body; to attempt to touch her breasts but the blanket covering them and the fabric of her T-shirt kept bunching up, getting in his way. He was also becoming slightly frustrated by his own lack of mobility. He couldn't bend very well and he had to move cautiously so as not to hurt Sara with his heavy cast. Finally, after tossing off the blanket and wrestling past the annoying folds of fabric, his fingers made contact.

Yet, as she began to moan in response to his touch, his brain started to catch up with him. Didn't Sara tell him last night that she wanted to wait? That she wanted their first time to be special? He tried to ignore that thought, for she was obviously enjoying herself so he was being ridiculous. Wasn't he?

However, this was Sara, the woman that he loved, the woman with whom it had taken him over ten years to initiate a meaningful relationship. She was the most important person in his life. After all the stupid mistakes he'd made in the distant and recent past, he couldn't afford to start off on the wrong foot, so he pulled back while he still could in order to be sure.

She whimpered in protest when he stopped kissing her. "What's wrong?"

"Is this what you want? Is it special enough for you?" he panted, although his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, as they began to rub her nipples. Heaven forbid, if this wasn't the right time for her, he needed to bolt, fast.

Sara gasped, instinctively pushing herself closer to him. Then she laughed, a deep throaty laugh. "Of course it is, who do you think started all this?"

That was all he needed to quench any doubts. "Take off your shirt," he growled hungrily.

She yanked it over her head then tossed it towards the floor. "What about yours?"

He sat up to remove it; since it was a little more challenging for him with his injuries, Sara helped him pull it over his head.

"Where do you want me?" she asked suggestively, her brown eyes sparkling mischievously.

"On your side."

He examined her panties, which were light pink and bikini style. He slipped his fingers beneath the slim band of fabric and seriously contemplated ripping them right off her.

Sara caught on to his plan and protested, "Hey, I don't have any other underwear here."

He grinned naughtily, "And that's a problem?"

His fingers were poised, slipped beneath the fabric, ready for action. Yet he could see her cringing at that thought, so he respected her wishes and gently peeled them off of her. He lay down beside her, her back resting against his chest. Her skin felt warm and smooth against him. He began to trail wet kisses on the back of her neck as he caressed her breasts with one hand and slid his other hand between her legs. She moaned as her body responded to his attention.

"Oh god…" she gasped as she writhed with pleasure, her cries heightening his arousal. He continued to stroke her, his fingers well lubricated, as her movements became even more frenzied.

"Oh god," she cried as her body arched then relaxed. Breathing heavily, she flipped over to face him, eagerly searching for his mouth, covering it with hers, while her hand brushed against the large bulge in his sweats.

He wasn't going to be able to hold back much longer. Ignoring his pride, he asked Sara, "Help me get my pants off."

Sara rapidly complied, yanking his sweat pants past his hips then over his knees and ankles. She banged his cast a little in the process but he didn't care, the faster, the better.

"How do you want me?" she asked.

Ideally he longed to be on top of her, but he didn't think he could handle it. It would be hard to maneuver with the ribs being so tender, and with the cast. So they opted to lie side by side, facing one another. Sara put her leg over his thigh, drawing them closer.

He slid himself inside of her and the two began to move in that familiar rhythm, matching one another's pace. Their tempo quickened rapidly as did their breathing. Just as he thought he'd almost reached his peak, Sara began licking his neck, the added sensation instantaneously triggering his release. Hot and sweaty, they collapsed in each other's arms.

Grissom turned to lay on his back while Sara cuddled with him, leaning her head against his chest and throwing an arm about his middle. Panting, they sought one another to kiss gently, tenderly. Then Sara collapsed, laying her head back against him.

"That was..that was incredible," she sighed.

"Yeah."

It was. Over the years, he'd slept with numerous women, some even skilled in erotic pleasures. Yet, in spite of his physical limitations, no encounter had come close to equaling the intensity of the one that he'd just experienced. Maybe that was the difference between having sex and making love.

"I love you Sara," he whispered. He'd never felt this way about any other woman. The intensity of his feelings was a little frightening, yet he was thrilled that he'd finally been able to take the steps to become involved with her.

Contentedly she murmured, "I love you too baby."

The two held each other as the sun's rays started to enter the room in full force. He lightly caressed her back as their breathing slowed down. Finally he was truly grateful that his life had been spared, that he'd been given a second chance, that he was still alive. For this was what had been missing all those years. If his mother's god had been the force behind his accident, at least something beneficial had arisen from it.

And hopefully yesterday's spark would bear fruit. He was encouraged by the event and cautiously optimistic that his mind would continue to heal on its own.

He felt Sara shiver so they managed to pull the blankets over them, then resume their original positions.

It was amazing how quickly life could change. One day he was planning on driving to an entomology conference, only to find himself fighting for his life after a few hours. Three days later, he'd accepted that he was going to die, only to be treated in the emergency room within hours. Only twenty-four hours ago, he'd been nervously waiting for Sara to show up at his apartment, absolutely stricken by the thought of not seeing her again, and now she was in his arms.

"Sara?"

"Uh-huh," she murmured.

He propped some pillows behind his head so he could see her face better. "Why did you come back? I mean, I'm glad you did, but…why? After what I did…" His voice trailed off. He hoped he wasn't getting himself in trouble here, but he was confused, he needed to understand how she felt. He didn't fully comprehend how she could forgive him.

She began to trace on his chest with her fingers. "Your letter. Griss…er Gil?"

"Whatever you're comfortable with."

"I never dreamed that I would actually hear you say those words." Her voice was starting to get hoarse. "And for you to write them down _on paper_…for anyone to see. Where you couldn't take it back or deny that those words ever existed." Her eyes started to tear up. "It was a huge step for you, the equivalent of a commitment. I recognized that."

His curiosity overcame his pride. "What took you so long to get here? I was getting pretty anxious," he confessed.

"I felt like I'd been slapped in the face when I realized that you couldn't kiss me that day in the woods. It hurt. Badly. I needed to distract myself, to get away from the pain. I knew alcohol would only make things worse, so I showed up at the lab to immerse myself in work."

"Did it help?"

"Not really, but it took the edge off. Of course, Catherine was hovering, trying to bug me, she realized that something was wrong, but I told her to leave me alone. I was pretty rude to her. I don't know how much time went by before she showed up again and insisted that I take a break. I gave her a lot of grief. She practically dragged me into the break room where I saw the flowers. I knew they were from you. I have to be honest, my first reaction was to throw them away, I was angry and hurt."

"I know," was his soft reply. He'd been afraid that she'd react in that fashion.

"When I tried to grab the base of the container to pitch them into the trash, Catherine blocked me and insisted that I had to read the card. I wanted her off my back so I did. You know, she was smart enough to leave the room after I started reading, because that's when I starting crying."

He made a mental note that he owed Catherine dinner, or a bottle of wine or _something_. Perhaps Sara could help him figure out how to show his appreciation, for Catherine had played a vital role in bringing them together.

"I'm sorry you had to go through all that," he apologized then he kissed her as he ran his fingers through her hair.

Since they were getting to know one another on a deeper level, there was another question that had been bothering him for some time. More than one person had alluded to this as if it were highly significant. He hoped he wasn't pushing his luck.

"Can you tell me about what happened at the hospital?" He felt her stiffen; she didn't want to talk about it so he kissed her temples. "Please honey, I need to know."

She took a deep breath, striving to describe her memories. "Let's see…Catherine left us a frantic message to meet her at Desert Palms ER. We had no idea why. I think Nick, Warrick and I had just worked a double, and we were finishing up with a late breakfast at some diner. When we arrived at the hospital emergency room, I knew the minute I saw her." A tear slid down her cheek.

"I just froze, I could hear her voice, but it sounded like it was coming from a long way off. She told us that you'd had an accident, that you'd lapsed into a coma and that you might never regain consciousness. I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything. I guess I was in shock." She suppressed a sob.

"We were in the waiting room for hours, and at some point we moved up to a hospital room. Then some of us had to report for work that night. I could hear the others murmuring about it, guess they got Days and Swing shift to help out. Nobody bothered to ask me, they left me alone."

With sudden clarity, he replied, "You stayed until I woke up, didn't you?" He could vaguely remember the nurse talking about a girl who'd stayed with him all night. At the time, he didn't make the connection.

She nodded. "Actually I just missed it. The nurses convinced me to lie down for a while on the couch in the nurse's lounge. They sent someone to get me but by the time I arrived, you'd fallen asleep."

He was shaken. "Sara, you were there over two days straight? After you worked a double shift too?" She must've been like the walking dead.

She tried to minimize it. "Yeah, the others were checking in as they could, but I stayed."

"Why?" Up to that point, she'd had no reason to suspect that he had deeper feelings for her, at least none that he was aware of.

More tears crept down her face. "I thought you were going to die. I was afraid that you'd never wake up. I knew, at that point, I _knew _that I loved you, even if you didn't return my feelings. Even if you never _could_ return them. No matter how much I tried to deny it, I didn't have a choice any more; I couldn't get away from it. So I accepted the fact that I loved you, so I couldn't leave until you showed some improvement."

He was surprised. "You didn't act differently towards me at the hospital."

"You wouldn't have been able to tell, you were so out of it, Gil. It was scary. Even so, I avoided looking at your eyes because I thought there might've been a slim chance that you could. Everybody else sure could. I felt like I was wearing a neon sign which shouted in bold flashing letters, 'I'm in love with Gil Grissom'." Her cheeks became flushed. "And you were in such bad shape; I didn't want to add to your burdens. I couldn't make it worse. I remembered how uncomfortable you were when I asked you out, I couldn't take that chance of adding to your problems in that hospital room."

He hated to admit it but she was right. Maybe he would've accepted comfort from her in the very beginning of his stay, while he was in a daze, but it would've lead to a potentially awkward situation.

"So when did you go home?" he asked.

"After the nurses told me that you'd revived for a few minutes. The doctors were greatly encouraged and felt your condition was turning around and that you were out of danger. I guess I was relieved. I…I kind of collapsed. I think Nick took me home. I don't really remember, it was kind of a blur." She tried ineffectively wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"That's why you weren't around those first few days."

"Yeah.' Suddenly Sara felt embarrassed by her tears. "We should clean up. I must look terrible. Want to take a shower?"

Grissom wasn't able to control his involuntary response. "No," came out a little too forcefully.

At first, she was offended by his reaction, but then it didn't take her long to realize why he responded in that fashion. She began to trace his beard with her fingertips.

"Is the nurse still helping you out?"

He nodded; he didn't want to talk about it. It was humiliating enough not being able to take care of his personal needs.

She started to kiss his neck as she spoke. "You know, just because we made love doesn't mean that I expect you to tell me all your secrets. You're a private person, and I know it will take time for us to grow closer. Now you know some of mine, but that doesn't mean that you know all of them." She lifted her head to kiss his cheek but he pulled her closer to kiss her lips soundly.

Although she was enjoying it, she broke the kiss to finish her train of thought. "Gil, this is important. You've had a terrible experience and I want to help you get through it. Can you trust me to do this?"

He felt torn. He wanted to argue that it wasn't simply a matter of trust; there was significantly more to it. But then he'd have to actually talk about those issues. So he stalled, "Sara, it's just too hard for me to do by myself now. Since I can't put any weight on my ankle, balancing is almost impossible."

Sara had made up her mind. "You're not doing it by yourself. Call the nurse later and tell him that you don't need him anymore," she replied firmly. She sat up. "C'mon, let's go."

With a sinking sensation in his gut, he reluctantly rose, using his crutches to follow her. The view was certainly stimulating. Sara was a gorgeous woman, even with a tear stained face; his eyes remained fixed on her lush naked body. Yet even his pleasure in that began to diminish as they entered his bathroom.

He was loath to admit to Sara that just being in this bathroom made him queasy, that taking a shower was a logistical nightmare for him. The first few times he'd tried to take a shower, with the nurse's assistance, he'd actually vomited. In fact, the nurse typically gave him sponge baths. Grissom had ventured into the shower with his aid's assistance only a handful of times. He longed for the day when he could take a nice long hot shower without feeling nauseous

Sara found some clean towels and started to run the water.

He sat on the closed toilet seat, unable to stand long on his mending ankle. His pulse rate was starting to escalate and his breathing was becoming ragged. "Honey, I can't…I can't do this," he objected.

She moved toward him to put her hands on his shoulders. "It's okay. Trust me, let me take care of you."

On top of his overall queasiness, his pride was stinging. It just didn't feel right. She shouldn't have to help him bathe; it made him feel old. He felt completely out of control, like he was going to pass out.

Sara was aware of his rising discomfort, but she continued getting ready. "Do you have some plastic bags to cover your cast?"

He pointed to a cabinet, so she prepared his cast.

He closed his eyes, trying to slow his breathing, feeling that familiar dread. He must be an idiot, feeling this way. Dr. Walker said it was perfectly normal, but over a month seemed like an awfully long time to be experiencing this type of anxiety. He was a grown man. This just didn't make sense. Shouldn't he be improving some?

She was waiting.

He took a deep breath. Could he do this? His gut was screaming no. Yet, the only way to deal with this type of irrational fear was to face it. Putting it off would only make it worse and even give it more power over him. He couldn't stand that thought. And didn't Dr. Walker say he needed to associate new memories with the scene of the accident?

Also, he'd just taken a huge risk opening his life to Sara, and so far that was going better than he'd ever imagined. Perhaps this could work out as well? He could tell that this was very important to her, so he'd give it his best effort.

"It's okay." She kissed him gently, "Let me help you." Then she helped him into the bath chair.

Being in the actual bathtub intensified his fears. It wasn't just the ordinary fear of falling; he was overflowing with absolute dread. He gripped the edge of the bathtub with white knuckles while praying he could keep his stomach contents down.

Sara didn't fool around; she stepped into the shower, pulled the shower curtain across, and got down to business right away, aware of his panic. She started out by washing his hair, using a cup to help completely soak his hair. For a brief instant, he felt like a little boy being washed by his mother. But that sensation didn't last for long. Her fingers kneading his scalp felt relaxing, taking the edge off his tension. His death grip on the tub began to loosen some.

Next she rubbed some soap on to a washcloth and proceeded to wash his body, gradually working her way from his head down to his toes. She took great care about his face, carefully avoiding his eyes.

When Sara was washing somewhere between his chest and his hips, he began to relax more. Somehow, her presence and her scrubbing were beginning to sooth his frayed nerves. It did feel good to be really clean. He also finally accepted, on some level, that if he did fall, she'd help him. His accident wasn't going to replay itself. It was an immensely reassuring thought.

After she'd finished washing him, she began to wash herself. He was astounded to find himself unwinding even more. He was even becoming slightly aroused watching her, though she wasn't trying to be sexy. At one point, he grabbed her hand because he wanted to kiss her, but she insisted that they needed to finish up before they ran out of hot water.

When she was clean, she bent so she could kiss him. They exchanged a few gentle kisses then she got up to turn off the water and pull back the shower curtain.

That sound caused him to flinch, rudely pulling him back to reality, reminding him that he hadn't conquered all of his demons.

Sara helped him dry off as much as he could while in the bathtub. He could feel himself tensing at the prospect of getting out of the tub. Although Sara was a slim woman, she was strong. They cautiously transferred him out of the bathtub and then over to the toilet seat to sit down.

The tension and exertion had sapped a lot of his strength yet he was almost giddy with relief. All of the horrible feelings hadn't disappeared, but it was a vast improvement. He felt as if he'd been baptized, with the shower water washing his old life and fears down the drain. Now he was facing life as a new man.

Letting Sara help him hadn't been humiliating. It was an act of love. He cursed himself for being such a fool. If he'd allowed her into his life earlier, his recovery could've been easier. Or if she'd already been living with him, his extended stay on the bathroom floor could've been avoided. Immediate medical treatment, without the added impact of dehydration, would've had a significant impact on the nature of his injuries.

Without thinking he said, "We need a new place, one with a bigger bathroom. Maybe a stall shower?" Oh god, he was assuming a lot with that statement. He hoped he hadn't overstepped the boundaries there.

Sara had wrapped her towel around her, tucking it in over her breasts, and was trying to part her hair while looking in the mirror. She glowed, understanding him completely. "How about one of those whirlpool tubs? That'd be nice. And how many bedrooms?"

"Two, or maybe three," he grinned, enjoying this game.

Her smile became broader. "Yeah, three…in a good school district, you know…just in case."

Then Grissom came back to reality. "Sara, I don't know what I'm talking about. I can't make any plans. I still don't even know if I can return to my job."

"We'll work it out Gil. One day at a time, right? We can look at places on the Internet, just for fun." She continued to comb her hair. "Shouldn't we call your doctor about what happened yesterday?"

"That's a good idea." Though his doctor would probably just tell him to wait and see, as he'd done so many times before.

"Can I come with you?" she asked tentatively, sensing this was a private arena.

He had no objections. "Of course, but don't you have to work?"

She tested the waters. "You wouldn't mind if I took a few days off to get used to our…new relationship, would you?"

"That'd be great."

He used his crutches to slowly work his way back to his bedroom. While the shower had worked out infinitely better than he'd anticipated, he was wiped out. He was looking forward to the day when his stamina would completely return, particularly since he had a stunning new girlfriend. Sara offered to help him with his clothes and he let her. Then he stretched on his bed and watched as she dressed herself.

He didn't know what the future held for him, but for a change, he had hope. He was hopeful that he'd continue to improve, that his brain would continue to heal, and that he'd be able to return to his job. Yet he didn't hold the answers to those questions, no one did. Only time would tell.

Sara joined him on the bed, leaning against his chest and wrapping her arms around him.

And whatever life dealt him; he was no longer alone. He had someone to share his burdens with, to travel the road with. For now, he was happy. In Sara's arms he felt like a new man.

THE END 

**A/N** Yes, it's really over; I'm feeling a little sad myself. But…I have some ideas brewing for a follow up story. I'd love to hear any of your suggestions.


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